"Working on it," he mumbles.
"Work faster."
The corner of his mouth twitches, a ghost of a smile, and it hits me—how much effort he must have had to come up with for that to surface.
Then his face tightens, and he curls forward, arm tightening around his stomach. I grab the trash can and slide it closer.
"Bucket’s not necessary," he says, voice strained. "Think I’m empty."
"Better to have it and not need it."
"Crisis manager logic," he murmurs.
"Seven-hours-on-the-bathroom-floor logic," I shoot back.
That shuts him up. Not because he’s chastened but because he’s too tired to argue.
I head to the bathroom, grab a clean washcloth, soak it with cold water, and fold it across his forehead. He exhales slowly, shoulders dropping.
"Better?" I ask.
"Mm."
I sit on the coffee table across from him, close enough to reach him if he needs help, far enough not to hover. My knee bounces with leftover adrenaline from finding him in that condition on the bathroom floor.
Still feel the flash of terror when I thought—
No. I'm not going there. He’s going to be fine. It’s probably food poisoning. Horrible, miserable, violent food poisoning, but manageable if I can keep him hydrated.
When the delivery arrives, I unpack it quickly, lining things up on the counter like I’m staging a medical kit. I mix electrolyte powder into water, then bring the glass back to the couch.
"Hey," I say, tapping his shoulder gently. "I need you to drink this."
He lifts his head just enough to take a small sip, grimacing immediately.
"That’s better than nothing," I tell him. "But you’re going to have to do more soon."
He lets his head sink back, eyes closing again.
Then his arm slides across my lap.
It happens so casually that I barely realize how he manages to do it so smoothly.
His hand curls over my thigh, anchoring himself, and then he shifts—heavy but surprisingly uncoordinated—and lays his head on my lap like it’s the most natural place in the world to rest.
I freeze.
The intimacy of it steals my breath in a way I can’t prepare for. His head is warm in my lap, his shoulders finally loose, his breathing calmer and yet stronger, and I can’t bring myself to move, because the truth is still the same as it's been since Switzerland. I love this man and he's needs me, even if he might wish I were someone else. Anyone else.
"Natalia?" he murmurs, voice barely audible.
"Yeah?"
He swallows, eyes still closed.
"Just… stay with me," he says quietly. "Please."
The words hit deep.
