Rebirth Of The Forgotten Heiress - Chapter 39: Chapter 39

Yasin seemed to have found comfort in Quinlyn's voice. His hand lifted instinctively toward the sound, fingers grasping weakly at the air as if trying to catch the person calling his name.
Quinlyn already stood close at his side, and her worry pulled her closer. They were close enough that when his hand lifted weakly, his fingers found her arm effortlessly with unexpected strength for someone barely conscious.
Quinlyn hissed through her teeth as his fingers dug into her flesh. She knew it wasn't intentional, but the pain was real.
In his current state—eyes screwed shut, lips bloodless—he looked strangely fragile, all his usual sharp edges softened by vulnerability.
An unexpected sympathy tugged at Quinlyn's chest. The Narrator's words echoed in her mind: his fate would be worse than hers.
"I'm not going anywhere," she said quietly. "You can hold on, just... not quite so tight, alright?" She continued speaking even though she doubted he could hear her.
His grip stayed tight, his knuckles turning white as he held onto her arm like it was the only thing keeping him from slipping away. This broken man seemed nothing like the sharp, focused person she knew.
Quinlyn thought he hadn't heard her. She clenched her teeth against the pain, unwilling to cry out and alert the others outside.
His crushing grip left her no choice but to endure. She could only vow to repay him by smashing his hand with a rock when he woke. Then suddenly, his grasp weakened.
His fingers relaxed as he shifted downward until his hand found hers, closing around it with surprising tenderness. He became still, his breathing slowing. The sickly pallor faded from his skin, replaced by a healthy flush in his cheeks.
Quinlyn watched quietly, partly certain this was all an act.
What she didn't realize was that Yasin, lost in a nightmare, was fighting against unbearable pain that overwhelmed him yet left him unable to cry out.
Through the fog of agony, he detected warmth—an outstretched arm—and clutched at it desperately. 'Stay with me. Don't leave me behind,' his confused mind begged.
He held on, but then it struck him—he might be hurting her. The thought made his grip soften, though he couldn't bring himself to let go. Instead, he simply kept her hand in his, gentler now, drawing quiet comfort from its warmth.
His hand fit perfectly around hers, her warmth easing his pain, and his breathing steadying almost at once.
Yasin awoke to find Quinlyn's head resting heavily on his hand, her slack mouth leaving a damp trail of drool across his fingers.
He shook his head slightly, his face twisting in disgust at the discovery.
Quinlyn stirred at his movement and met his gaze through half-lidded eyes. "That face for me?" she asked, her voice still heavy with sleep.
Yasin wordlessly pointed at his saliva-dampened hand with his clean one.
She gave a soft, unapologetic laugh. "You can let go of my hand now. I mean now. Unless you want trouble."
Yasin looked down. Her hand lay slack beneath his, while his fingers remained locked around it in a white-knuckled grip.
Quinlyn was past the point of arguing. "Move it. You should thank those crabs, or our friendship ends right here," she muttered.
Yasin blinked groggily, his feverish mind still clouded with sleep. He barely registered her words as his grip slackened, giving Quinlyn just enough room to scramble upright.
But hours of sitting had left her legs completely numb. The sudden movement made her face blanch—half from the pins-and-needles agony, half from her desperate need for the bathroom.
She managed to point a shaky finger at Yasin, her hand curled stiffly from the numbness. "Just wait. I'll deal with you when I get back." Then she bounced toward the door in a clumsy hop-skip, each landing punctuated by high-pitched shrieks as she half-leaped, half-fell her way out.
Yasin watched her retreating form in blank confusion before finally glancing down at his hand. A lingering warmth still clung to his palm, radiating slowly through his body with unexpected comfort.
Sleep had become elusive for Yasin lately. Restless nights bled into days filled with unexplained aches. Outwardly composed, he was barely containing the pressure building within him. That explained why Quinlyn's casual mention of rain had triggered such immediate opposition.
After their time together, Yasin hadn't learned all the details but had pieced together the broad strokes.
When he waved his hand above his head, the words "Doomed Supporting Male" hovered in the air. He suspected those floating letters might explain the strange aches plaguing his body.
The tag gnawed at him, settling like a weight on his shoulders.
The label brought constant pain and something else he couldn't quite define. Either way, he knew he was no storybook hero—not one of those golden protagonists who overcame every challenge without breaking a sweat.
After all, a real chosen one would never struggle with something as basic as getting decent sleep.
Yet tonight, for the first time, he'd slept deeply. As he considered what had changed, his gaze fell on his still-damp right hand. 'Could there be something unusual about her saliva?' he thought.
Quinlyn went to her room quickly to use the bathroom and then immediately returned to her self-appointed task—looking after Yasin's needs. He hadn't eaten all day, and she intended to fix that.
She paused after two steps, glancing through the corridor window. The sky hadn't darkened yet, and a faint sunset glow still lingered. She frowned, leaning closer to the glass for a better look.
Voices drifted up from downstairs. "Thank God this awful weather finally cleared," Rita said. "What a miserable stretch, but at least it's over soon. Let's go to the beach later."
Quinlyn studied the sky again, puzzled. 'The rain stopped far too soon. Could Yasin have somehow influenced it?' But she shook her head at the absurdity. 'A background character like him couldn't possibly change weather patterns meant for the protagonists.'
She pushed the ridiculous idea aside. Anyway, he was laid up with a fever—crab hunting was likely out of the question.
Thirty minutes after dinner, the supposedly sick man appeared fully dressed at the doorway. "Low tide's coming," he announced. "Good weather for crabbing. Bring your gear if you're interested. Or stick with your dry bread." His tone was more commanding than inviting.