“Don’t forget to wrap the wound!” he called after me.
I didn’t answer.
He huffed, clearly frustrated but holding it in. Then, after a beat, his voice came again, quieter this time. “I’m staying right here. If you need me?—”
“I won’t,” I cut in through the door, even though my legs were still trembling and I couldn’t catch my breath.
Silence followed, but I knew he was there on the other side.
He was still there when I came out, water from my hair dripping down my neck, the only towel I could find wrapped around my waist.
“Don’t you have cars to fix?” I snapped, trying to inject enough sharpness to cover the fact that I was feeling lightheaded and dangerously close to collapsing again. The room swayed a little, but I locked my knees and kept my face blank.
Rio watched me, arms crossed, expressionunreadable, and he didn’t move to help, but his presence -- steady and unflinching -- said more than any comeback could.
I made it back to the bed, his footsteps ghosting mine, never quite touching me, but there all the same. He hovered, tracking my every sway as if he were ready to catch me the second I tipped. I hated how much I needed that.
When I finally sat, breath coming in shallow bursts, Rio let out an audible huff and stalked to the closet. A moment later, he returned with a towel. He held it out to me as a peace offering.
I didn’t move fast enough.
With an exaggerated sigh, he tossed the towel over my head, half covering my face. The damp fabric clung to my skin as he stepped back, arms folded, one brow raised as if he was daring me to prove I could dry my own damn hair.
It wasn’t cruel. It was a challenge wrapped in concern, delivered the only way he knew how—with just enough sarcasm to hide how much he wanted to do it himself.
I used one hand, my other arm shaking, and managed to get the towel up to my head. Slow, clumsy passes worked the water out of my hair, and I could feel Rio’s eyes on me the entire time—measuring, watching, waiting to see if I’d give up and let him take over.
Now what? I didn’t dare ask out loud.
The clothes they’d loaned me were still in the bathroom, now damp and clinging where the shower had splashed beyond the curtain. And I was done. So fucking done.
Rio disappeared, and I let out a sigh of relief, already resigning myself to staying in the towel. But before I could even settle into the idea, he was back—sweats in one hand, a Redcars shirt in the other.
“No underwear,” he explained.
“I’ll manage,” I muttered.
He stood there, watching, as I showed him my back and dropped the towel enough to step into the sweats. I kept the other towel clutched tight to my chest as I tried to pull the shirt over my head, moving slowly and gritting my teeth against the pain in my side.
When I was dressed, I tossed both towels onto the chair and faced him again.
I tilted my chin, waiting for him to tell me I was weak, needed help, expecting concern, maybe a lecture, maybe the smallest scrap of sympathy for the effort it took to stand there dressed and upright. I’dpushed too far—he knew it, I knew it—and I braced for the fallout.
But it didn’t come.
Instead, there was something else in his expression. A flicker I couldn’t name at first. Not judgment. Not pity. Something warmer. Sharper. Confusion, maybe. Pride, even. His gaze met mine, steady and unreadable, but I felt it before I saw it -- the slow drag of his eyes down my chest, pausing low, then flicking back to my face as though he hadn’t just looked.
And the heat blooming under my skin had nothing to do with fever.
“I need a phone. I have to check for messages.”
“From who?”
“The system, Kessler, updates on my work. I need your phone.” I held out my hand, and after a moment, he passed it to me.
I was into the terminal messages in an instant, screen catching them as they scrolled up and vanished one by one. Each was increasingly more bizarre than the last.
K:Was it you?
