"He's stable," the doctor said, exhaling. "We managed to remove the bullet. He's still unconscious, but he will recover."
Leyla slowly walked into Ozan's hospital room, her heart thudding painfully with every step. The sterile smell of antiseptic mixed with the faint scent of him hit her all at once, making her chest tighten.
There he was. Her husband. Her enemy. Her savior.
Lying on the hospital bed, pale but breathing—alive.
She approached hesitantly, her hands shaking as she reached out to brush a strand of hair from his forehead.
"Ozan," she whispered, her voice hoarse from all the crying.
Seeing him like this—vulnerable, motionless—broke something inside her. The strong, dominant man who always towered over her, who claimed her like no one else dared, now looked so fragile.
Leyla sank onto the chair beside his bed, clutching his hand in both of hers.
"You stupid man," she murmured through tears. "Why did you do this? Why did you take that bullet for me…?"
She pressed her forehead against their joined hands, silent sobs wracking her body.
"I hate you… but I can't lose you," she breathed shakily. "I can't… I love you. I love you so much it hurts."
A tear slipped down her cheek, landing softly on his fingers.
For hours, she sat there, holding his hand, whispering confessions she never thought she'd say out loud.
At one point, exhausted, she fell asleep with her head resting on the edge of the bed, her fingers still tightly wrapped around his.