I stand there for a second too long.
Because seeing her in my bed does something unsettling.
It isn’t sexual. Not at first. It’s quieter than that.
She looks like she belongs there.
Like she’s always belonged there.
And that thought is the kind that can ruin a man.
I force myself to look away, to focus on something practical, something that keeps me from standing here and staring at her like a fool.
I step back into the hallway. The apartment is too clean.
Not the usual clean, but the kind of clean that smells like disinfectant and effort.
It hits me when I pass the bathroom. Bleach.
Sharp and unmistakable, lingering in the air as if she tried to scrub the night out of the tile.
I push the bathroom door open and see it immediately.
The wastebasket has been rinsed and lined. The counter was wiped down. The sink was spotless. Even the floor looks like it’s been mopped.
Of course she did.
Of course, Natalia Kovac, crisis manager extraordinaire, can’t walk away from a mess, even a mess made by my body turning against me, without restoring order.
I lean over the sink and brace my hands on the counter, staring at my reflection.
My eyes are bloodshot. My skin is still pale. I look like a man who got dragged through something and barely made it out.
I brush my teeth.
Then, because the taste still clings and I hate the memory of last night sitting in my mouth, I brush them again.
I take a shower that’s hotter than it needs to be, letting the water hit my shoulders until my muscles loosen and my mind stops spinning. I stand there longer than necessary, hands on the tiled wall, breathing slowly, letting myself come back into my body.
When I’m done, I dry off and dress in sweats and a t-shirt, something clean that doesn’t remind me of weakness.
Then I go to the kitchen and order food.
Not sick-person food. Not broth and crackers.
Real food. Eggs. Toast. Coffee. Something for her too—something she’ll eat even if she insists she isn’t hungry. I added an extra pastry because I remembered the way she wrapped both hands around her mug at the café in Switzerland, like warmth matters to her even when she pretends it doesn’t.
The delivery estimate is twenty-five minutes.
In that time, I paced.
Not because I’m restless.
Because my brain is doing the thing it always does when something doesn’t fit neatly into my rules.
It keeps circling back to the same question. Why did she stay?
And then, more dangerously. What do I do with that?
