For one terrifying second, I think something’s wrong. Then I see the slow rise and fall of her breathing.
I let out a quiet breath. “Jesus Christ,” I murmur.
I step inside and crouch beside her, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. She doesn’t stir.
In sleep, she looks younger. Softer. All the fire and embarrassment gone, leaving behind something painfully innocent.
My heart swells with something unrecognisable.
She reminds me of Anika in the old days, after too much to drink, stubbornly pretending she was fine right up until she crashed wherever she landed. The memory hits hard enough to still me for a second.
Then I slide one arm beneath Wynter’s knees and the other around her back and lift her carefully into my arms. She lets out a sleepy little sound, then burrows against my chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I go still,inhaling sharply as her cheek presses against me and her fingers curl weakly into my shirt. Something low and possessive shifts inside me.
I carry her back to the elevator and unlock it, taking her up to the apartment.
The penthouse is quiet when we arrive.
As I pass Anika’s room, I glance in and find the agency nurse sitting beside the bed reading, whilst Anika sleeps soundly. She looks up. I nod once in greeting and keep going.
Wynter shifts in my arms again, mumbling something I can’t make out.
“Yeah,” I mutter quietly, more to myself than to her. “You’re a fucking disaster.”
I lay Wynter carefully on the bed and stand there for a moment, debating how far I can go in making her comfortable without crossing a line.
In the end, I crouch and slip off her shoes. Anything more than that feels inappropriate. I pull the blanket up over her and straighten slowly, letting my gaze drift around the room.
She’s already started making it her own.
Twinkling fairy lights glow softly against the wall, and polaroids hang between them on little pegs. I move closer, drawn in despite myself.
I study each photograph, trying to piece together the life she had before she walked into mine. I know next to nothing about her. Not really. These people clearly matter to her. I can see it in her smile from one picture to the next, in the way she leans into them, laughs with them, looks at them like they’re home.
Friends.
Family.
Her world.
I wonder where they are, and why they aren’t here with her. I pause at the last photograph. It’s Wynter with a man. His arms are wrapped around her, his chin resting on her shoulder, and the smile on her face is softer somehow. More intimate.
This is a picture of two people who are deeply in love. Something tight and unpleasant twists in my chest.
I stare at it for a second too long before forcing myself to step back. It shouldn’t matter. She’s my employee and her past is none of my business.
Her love life is none of my business.
But as I leave the room and quietly pull the door almost closed behind me, I can’t ignore the dull ache settling in my chest.
And I hate that I know exactly why it’s there.
“What’s got you so moody?” Anika asks as I spoon-feed her breakfast.
It still catches me sometimes, how much this matters. A few months ago, she had a feeding tube. Now, she can manageporridge, soggy cereal, yoghurt, mashed fruit. It shouldn’t feel like a victory, but it does.
“I’m not moody.”
