“Never,” Julian muttered, “I have not set foot in that house since I was taken from it as a boy.”
Suddenly, he felt Emily’s warm fingers stroking his hair. His head came up sharply and he pushed himself back from the bed, the chair legs catching in the rug. It overbalanced and toppled. Julian tumbled with it, eyes wide and staring at Emily.
“You… you should not have done that,” he said.
Her hand was still half raised.
“Why? Does the curse apply when someone else touches you?” she murmured.
“I… I do not know,” Julian admitted.
“If I am already cursed, then does it even matter?”
Her eyes were bright and wide. He wondered how much of her directness was the result of the fever which had lit a fire within her. How much longer would she go on?
Then she smiled. Despite the circumstances, despite being someone who does not smile easily, Julian found himself returning that smile. It lit up her face, giving her a radiance that he would not have believed possible in someone already so beautiful. She giggled, breaking the intimate eye contact between them. Julian found himself disappointed, craving that contact with her once more.
“My head is spinning. I am sorry if I am behaving in any way that is inappropriate. I do not know what you must think of me.”
Julian picked up the chair and returned it to the bedside.
“I do not judge,” he said, echoing his earlier words and seating himself again.
He watched as Emily’s chest rose and fell with labored breaths, her pale skin almost luminous in the dim light of the room. His heart clenched at how fragile she seemed, yet there was a fierce determination in her eyes, a spark that illness had yet to extinguish.
“You don’t need to stay.” Her voice was thin but resolute. “I know I am… not much company like this.”
Julian shook his head. “I will stay as long as you need me.”
She smiled faintly. Her lips parted, as if to say something, then hesitated. Her gaze drifted to the ceiling, and for a moment, Julian thought she had fallen silent… forever. But then she spoke, her voice softer, vulnerable. “There is something that… brings me comfort.”
His brow furrowed as he leaned in closer. “Anything, Emily. Just say the word.”
“When I was a child… when I was unwell,” she began, her eyes distant, “my mother would rest her head on my stomach. It would soothe me.”
Julian swallowed hard, understanding dawning in her words. “You want me to...”
“Lie your head on me,” she finished, her hand resting on her stomach. “I know it’s strange, but… I think it would bring me peace.”
His heart raced. The request was so simple, yet unbearably intimate. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. He had never allowed anyone that kind of closeness.
For a moment, he hesitated, unsure if he could let go of his rigid control. But then, he saw the weariness in her, the quiet desperation for comfort. With a deep breath, he nodded, standing from the chair and moving beside her. Gently, he lowered himself onto his knees beside the bed, his heart hammering in his chest. Then, he pressed his cheek against her stomach.
She inhaled softly, and he felt the delicate rise and fall of her body beneath him, her hand gradually sinking into his hair, stroking him with languid, tender movements.
The sensation was intoxicating—her warmth, her scent, the gentle rhythm of her touch. He closed his eyes, his body surrendering to the unexpected comfort of the moment. He had never felt so exposed, so defenseless.
For Julian, this was something alien, almost otherworldly. As a child, he had never known the warmth of another person’s touch, not like this. There had been no tender embraces, no gentle hands soothing his fevered brow. The rare moments of closeness he remembered had been rigid, cold—his nursemaids too afraid to disobey his father’s rules about touch. But now, this… this was something entirely different. Emily's hand in his hair, her body beneath his cheek—it was as though all the walls he had built around himself were crumbling, piece by piece.
Julian’s chest tightened, and he blinked rapidly as tears burned at the back of his eyes. It was absurd. He was no weakling, no longer a fragile boy longing for comfort. But here he was, resting his head on her, feeling her warmth seep into him, and it was overwhelming—like the world had shifted, like everything he had thought about himself was being unmade.
Then, despite himself, he reached for her hand, taking it in both of his.
“Take off the gloves,” she whispered. “What further harm can it do? Just my fortune that the only man I ever wished to touch should avoid it like the plague,” she laughed quietly.
Julian found himself breathless with desire and trepidation. Logically, it could do no further harm. Death could not be made worse. Emily took hold of the fingertips of his gloves and began to gently tug on them. First, his right hand, and then his left were revealed.
Finally, Emily rested her bare hands upon his, turning them over in her soft grasp.
