He shook his head, recognizing her attempt to ease the tension. “Hilarious.”
“I thought so,” she said, standing to clear their bowls. “Now, go back to bed. You still look half-dead, but with slightly more color.”
“You don’t have to stay,” he said again, though the words lacked conviction. The prospect of returning to his empty bedroom, of silence settling back over his apartment like a shroud, created an unexpected hollowness.
She paused, hands full of dishes, and her expression changed. “Do you want me to go?”
The question hung between them, deceptively simple.
“No,” he admitted finally. “But you shouldn’t feel obligated to stay.”
“I don’t do obligation,” she said, resuming her task of loading dishes into the dishwasher. “Not for things that matter.”
The casual way she said it—things that matter—sent unexpected warmth through his chest. When had he last mattered to anyone outside of what he could give them or help them to achieve? When had someone stayed simply because they wanted to?
“Thank you,” he said finally. “For staying. For the soup. For all of it.”
Her expression softened. “You’re welcome. Now go rest. The business world will survive.”
On the walk back to his bedroom, he couldn’t shake the sense that the dynamic between them had shifted into uncharted territory. Not the professional distance they’d maintained, not the careful choreography of their fake engagement, but genuine care freely given.
The thought should have alarmed him. Instead, as he sank back onto his bed, he found himself oddly at peace.
Either way, as sleep claimed him once more, his last conscious thought was of her—the sound of her presence filling his too-quiet world.
Chapter 16
The rich scentof coffee nudged her awake, an aroma too real for dreams. She blinked, momentarily disoriented by her surroundings. The sleek leather couch beneath her, the floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing Manhattan’s morning skyline.
It took her a moment to remember where she was. His penthouse. The events of yesterday flooded back—his fever, the soup, their surprisingly easy conversation in the kitchen. She must have fallen asleep on his couch after checking on him one last time.
Someone had draped a cashmere throw over her during the night.
The gesture sent unexpected warmth through her. Even while recovering from illness, he’d thought to ensure her comfort. It was such a small kindness, yet it felt monumental given how carefully he guarded his personal space.
“Good morning.”
She turned toward the voice, pushing herself upright. He stood in the kitchen doorway, looking remarkably more human than he had yesterday. His color had returned, though shadows still lingered beneath his eyes. He’d exchanged yesterday’ssweatpants for dark jeans and a gray Harvard T-shirt that somehow looked expensive despite its simplicity.
“You’re up,” she said, running a hand through her hopelessly tangled hair.
“Astute observation.” His dry tone offered a strange comfort. He gestured behind him. “I ordered breakfast.”
She rubbed at her eyes and squinted at him. “You did?”
“From that bakery you mentioned. The one with the strawberry croissants. You once said the powdered sugar they use ‘tastes like optimism.’”
She’d made the comment months ago during a particularly stressful morning when he’d been especially demanding and she’d been stress-eating pastries in the break room.
“You remembered that?”
“You talk frequently,” he said, tone dry but not unkind. “Some of it registers.”
The casual way he dismissed his own thoughtfulness made her chest ache. This man who claimed to hate distractions had remembered her ridiculous metaphor from three months ago and acted on it.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
He nodded once, uncomfortable with her gratitude. “Don’t expect it to become routine.”
