"Didn't want to bother you." A pause. Long enough that I look up at him. "Thought you'd still be mad at me. Because of the kiss at the club."
The words hit different than I expected. Vulnerable.
I stop gathering ice. Look up at him from my crouched position on the floor. "I'm not mad at you. At least not about the kiss."
The admission comes out shy, my voice quiet.
He moves toward me immediately. Reaches down with more certainty than someone with limited vision should have. His hand finds my arm, warm fingers wrapping around the cool skin, drawing me up until we're standing close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body.
"Then why did you react the way you did?" His fingers trail down my arm slowly, deliberately, mapping the path from shoulder to elbow to wrist. Stopping at my hand. He grabs it, not roughly but firmly, brings it up between us into the space that separates our bodies. Presses his finger pointedly to the bare spot on my ring finger where the engagement ring should sit. "Why aren't you wearing the ring?"
I try to pull back, suddenly too aware of how close we are, of my thin pajamas, how his touch makes my skin prickle with awareness. "We can talk about this when you're feeling better. When the migraine—"
"No." His grip tightens, not painful but absolutely insistent. Not letting me retreat or deflect or avoid this conversation any longer. "Now. Tell me now."
I swallow hard, feeling the words stick in my throat. "I didn't like being used to make some other woman jealous."
Confusion crosses his face, genuine and unfiltered. "What woman? What are you talking about?"
"The gorgeous one from the club last night." The words come out sharper than intended, edged with jealousy I don't want to feel and definitely don't want to admit to.
He chuckles, the sound low and amused despite the pain he must be in.
I try to pull my hand free but he holds tighter, not letting me escape.
"That woman," he says, all amusement draining from his voice as he sobers completely, "is my father's widow. Valentina. She's been stalking me ever since he died because she believes she's entitled to more of his estate than she actually got."
He pulls me closer, eliminating the last few inches between us. His mouth drops to my ear, breath warm against sensitive skin. "Were you jealous, Lily?"
I bristle immediately, defensive instinct kicking in hard. "I thought I was being used as a pawn in some game I didn't understand. I didn't like it. That's all."
The lie tastes bitter but I force it out anyway.
I pull open the kitchen drawer, pull a kitchen towel, wrap fresh ice from the still-open freezer in it with movements that are too sharp, too aggressive. "Now sit down or lay down somewhere so I can actually help with this migraine instead of standing here arguing."
"Will you do what you did last night?" His voice has changed, the challenge draining out of it and leaving something more vulnerable behind. "I need to lay down. It's getting worse by the minute."
The admission of need costs him something. I can hear it in his voice, see it in the way his shoulders have hunched slightly inward.
"Of course," I say, gentler now. "Come on."
We move through the dark apartment toward his bedroom. His room is exactly what I expected. Dark and cool and impersonal in a way that feels deliberately chosen. Minimalist furniture. Nothing decorative or unnecessary. A space designed for function rather than comfort.
"Lay on your side," I tell him.
He does, moving carefully onto the bed. I sit beside him on the mattress, feeling it dip under my weight, feeling the heat of his body even through the space that separates us.
I place the cold cloth against the back of his neck.
He moans in relief. The sound is low and unguarded and goes straight through me, settling somewhere it absolutely shouldn't.
I start to caress his head gently without thinking about it, fingers sliding through dark hair, tracing small circles against his scalp. A soothing massage meant to ease the tension I can feel radiating through every line of his body.
We stay like that for a while. Silent. Just the sound of his breathing gradually evening out, the tension slowly draining from his shoulders and neck as the cold and the touch do their work.
The room is so quiet I can hear the faint hum of the heating system, the distant sound of traffic far below.
I think he's fallen asleep when he speaks, his voice soft and slightly slurred with approaching unconsciousness.
