He stands, crossing to the bed. The lamplight hits his face, carving soft gold into the hard lines. He stops beside me, looking down like he’s making sure I’m really still breathing.
“I wanted to make sure the fever didn’t return,” he says.
“You’ve been here this whole time?”
He nods once. “I couldn’t leave.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I reach for the blanket instead, fingers brushing his hand by accident. His skin is warm. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
“You should rest,” he says, though his voice sounds rougher now.
“I’m tired of resting.”
He gives a small, humorless laugh and sits on the edge of the mattress. The silence between us stretches, full of things we both feel but won’t name.
“Why do you do this?” I ask softly. “Why did you take care of me? I’m sure you could have found someone else to do it.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then, “Because I failed her. I won’t fail you too.”
My chest tightens. “I’m not Sienna.”
“I know.”
The words are simple, but the weight behind them steals the air from the room.
He reaches out then, brushing his thumb gently across my cheek, catching a strand of hair that’s fallen loose. The touch is light but it burns right to my heart.
“You should sleep,” he whispers.
This time, when I close my eyes, I feel his presence beside me. Not touching. Just there. And somehow, that’s enough.
I meet Dr. Lars the next morning. He adjusts the IV line he started when he first saw me before checking my pulse.
“You had us very worried, young lady,” he says. His tone is firm but kind, the sort of voice that doesn’t invite argument. He checks my temperature, listens to my breathing, and nods in approval. “But I think we’re out of the woods now.”
Relief washes through me. My body still aches, but the fever’s gone, and the fog in my head has finally started to clear.
I glance toward the door.
Lorenzo stands just beyond the threshold, one shoulder pressed to the frame, arms crossed over his chest. The pose looks deceptively casual, like he’s simply waiting. But his eyes give him away—sharp, restless, tracking every word, every breath, every twitch of movement in the room.
If he had his way, he’d still be inside, hovering.
If I had my way, the door would be shut so I could have a shred of privacy.
It’s not that I don’t want him here. That’s the problem. I do. Too much. Because I can still feel what happened this morning just beneath my skin, lingering like warmth after sunlight.
When I’d first woken up my hair was a tangled mess against the pillow. I remember lifting a hand to fix it only for his fingers to get there first. He brushed my hair back gently, slowly, like he was afraid I’d break. His knuckles grazed my cheek, careful and warm. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t make a sound.
The touch felt wrong to enjoy. It was too intimate and too tender. But I liked it. God help me, I liked it likethat. Like the kind of liking you’re not supposed to have for a man who terrifies half the city. The kind that makes your stomach swoop and your chest flutter like you’re sixteen again and stupid.
And now, with him watching me from the doorway as if I might vanish if he blinks, it hits me like a punch. If he keeps looking at me like that—steady, unblinking, seeing straight through me—he’ll figure it out.
He’ll see the crush I’ve been desperately trying to smother. He’ll know that one gentle brush of his fingers across my hair this morning was enough to unravel me.
And I don’t think I can handle the rejection that I know would come from that realization.
“Is it okay if I get up and walk around?” I ask, focusing back on Dr. Lars.
