I pause. “Clara?”
He shifts, a faintly sheepish note crossing his face. “She comes in a few mornings a week. I forgot it was today. She arrived while you were still sleeping.”
“Oh.” My brain runs circles. “Did she… see me?”
“No,” he says at once, quick and firm. “Just helped with breakfast and left.”
I eye the tray. “You don’t pay her enough.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Funny you should say that.”
I take a bite of fluffy eggs, grateful that they’re not irritating my throat. “She didn’t have to leave, if it was on my behalf.”
“I didn’t want you to feel on display,” he says softly.
My fingers tighten around the fork and then let go. I trust him in small ways and big ones, but hearing him say it out loud shifts the ground under me a little.
It’s a relief that slants toward gratitude. I nod and take another bite of eggs. They’re as good as the pancakes, soft without going wet, seasoned in a way that tastes like somebody who cares cooked them.
“Aren’t you going to have any?” I ask.
“It’s for you,” he says.
“I couldn’t eat all this,” I say and push the fork at him. “Have some.”
He relents, and I pick up the little cup of tea. All of this might be a bit overkill, but the fact he thought of all this makes me go soft.
He hands the fork back to me, and we trade off until nearly all the food is gone.
Once it’s done, he stands and hefts the tray off me, then moves it to a bench at the foot of the bed.
I watch his movements, not knowing what’s going to happen now. Should I say something?
But before I can, he comes back to stand at the side of the bed. “I’d like to help with your soreness.”
My skin heats. Not just my cheeks this time, but throughout my whole body.
“Okay,” I say, breathless.
He nods toward the pillows. “Lie on your stomach?” His tone is calm, practical. Not clinical—there’s too much attention in it for that—but close.
I hesitate because I’m naked and the sheet will only cover so much. He sees the conflict form and doesn’t look away from my face.
“I can get a robe,”he offers.
“No,” I say, surprising myself with how quickly the word leaves. “It’s fine.”
I turn carefully and ease down. The sheet rides low across my hips. I tuck my arms under the pillow and rest my cheek there. Vulnerable. Also warm. I listen to him move around the room with quiet efficiency. A drawer slides open and shut. Then the bed dips.
“Tell me if anything hurts in a way you don’t like,” he says.
“I will.”
A cap twists, and I hear his hands rub together.
His hands touch my shoulders first. The oil he warms in his palms smells very faintly of almond. His thumbs find the muscles that sit tense at the base of my neck. He doesn’t push hard.
He presses down and moves slowly, patiently, like he’s listening through his hands. My body reacts fast, surprising me. I exhale in a long line I didn’t know I’d been holding.
