Lyra sat silently on the small couch beside the bed, her brows tightly furrowed.
She wanted to be angry. Furious, even.
To her, Veil hiding his injuries felt like he was treating her as an outsider.
But the moment she saw him wrapped in bandages from head to toe, looking so pitiful, something inside her chest began to ache—sharp and uncontrollable.
All her irritation and frustration melted at the tip of her tongue, and what came out instead was a tender, worried voice.
"Does it still hurt?"
Veil shook his head dismissively. "It doesn't. Just some minor injuries."
Lyra's eyes brimmed with grievance. "You're this badly hurt, and you're calling it minor? Then what exactly counts as serious in your book?"
Veil gave a pained smile. "But I didn't want to drag you into this because of me. You're busy enough with your work, your schedule's always tight. Having to waste time taking care of me... it's not worth it."
