"Both."
He laughs again—that same easy charm that probably works on everyone else. "You're fascinating, you know that?"
"I'm tired."
"Then let me wake you up." He uncorks the wine without asking, the pop echoing through the quiet house. Pours two glasses with practiced ease. Hands me one like we've done this a thousand times before. "To second chances."
I take the glass but don't lift it. Don't drink. Just stand there holding it like a prop in a play I never auditioned for.
"What are you doing here, Oliver?"
"I wanted to see you." He says it simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
"You saw me last night."
"And I haven't stopped thinking about you since." He moves closer—not crowding, but definitely present. Definitely there in a way that makes the air feel thinner. "You walked away too fast. I didn't get to properly say goodnight."
"You kissed my cheek."
"That's not proper." His smile turns wicked, edges sharpening. "That's polite."
I take a drink. The wine is good—too good, the kind that slides down smooth and makes you forget you're supposed to be sober-ish. It warms my throat, my chest, but does nothing for the cold settling in my bones.
He sits on my couch, sprawls really, one arm along the back like he's posing for a photograph. Comfortable. At ease. "Come. Sit with me."
"I should probably get dressed—"
"You look perfect as you are."
I tighten the robe and sit on the opposite end of the couch, as far from him as the furniture allows. The leather is cold through the thin fabric.
He grins, clearly amused. "Afraid I'll bite?"
"Afraid you'll try."
"Would that be so bad?" He shifts closer, closing the distance I tried to create. Not touching, but close enough that I can smell his cologne—expensive, woody, nothing like the cigarettes and motor oil that used to cling to Drogo's skin.
"Oliver—"
"Alena." He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, fingers lingering against my cheek. Warm. Gentle. Wrong. "I like you. I think you're incredible. And I think you're scared."
"I'm not—"
"You are. And that's okay." His thumb traces my jawline. "But you don't have to be. Not with me."
I pull back slightly, instinct more than intention.
He doesn't follow. Just watches me with those green eyes that probably see more than I want them to.
In the corner of the room, the shadows shift. I catch it from the periphery—dark shape moving where nothing should move, familiar and wrong all at once. The temperature drops another degree. My breath doesn't fog yet, but it will.
Oliver doesn't notice. He's too focused on me, reading my face like a book he's determined to finish.
"You're tense," he says softly, voice dropping into that practiced intimacy that probably works wonders in boardrooms and bedrooms alike. "Let me help."
"I'm fine."
"You're not." His hand slides to my shoulder, thumb pressing into the muscle with just enough pressure to makeme aware of how knotted I am. "When's the last time someone took care of you?"
