Chapter 8: Let Me Take Care of You

At three in the morning, Adrian tried to apologize to a glass of water.

He’d fallen asleep with one hand resting beside the mattress. When I set the glass on the bedside table, he opened his eyes, murmured something, and reached toward it.

“Careful,” I said.

His fingers caught the edge.

I steadied the glass before he knocked it over.

“Sorry, Cole.”

“You haven’t committed a crime against the table yet.”

He looked at me, still half asleep, and smiled.

Then his expression changed as he remembered.

I hated seeing that happen.

Not because I wanted him cheerful. I was still angry.

But there was something particularly miserable about watching someone wake up and immediately lose the brief comfort they’d had.

I helped him sit, handed him the water, and waited until he finished it.

“Any dizziness?”

“A little.”

“Stay put.”

“You sound like my doctor.”

“She gave me instructions. I’m enjoying having professional support for telling you what to do.”

His laugh was weak, but real.

I checked the time of his next scheduled medication and made a note for the nurse coming in the morning. The clinician had been clear. Observe, record, call if anything changed.

Nothing in that required me to sit holding his hand.

Which was why I looked at his fingers when they brushed mine.

He noticed.

“Sorry.”

“You’ve already apologized to the water. Don’t wear yourself out.”

“I meant for touching you.”

“I know what you meant.”

He withdrew his hand and rested it on the blanket.

I stared at it for a moment.

Then I placed mine beside it.

Close enough that our fingers touched if either of us moved.

Adrian looked down.

He didn’t take more than I’d offered.

That mattered.

By morning, Grace had arranged a nurse and postponed Adrian’s meetings.

She also emailed me revised instructions for handling his private information and asked to discuss the contract.

I agreed to meet her later.

Right now, I had an actor refusing breakfast because the oatmeal looked unpleasant.

“It has fruit,” I told him.

“It has the texture of wet wallpaper.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Is that your professional opinion?”

“My professional opinion is that you’re expensive enough to feed yourself.”

I placed the bowl on his lap.

He caught my wrist lightly before I stepped away.

“Have you eaten?”

I opened my mouth.

He glanced toward the kitchen.

“You made one bowl.”

“I’ll eat later.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“I was busy.”

He released my wrist.

“Then sit down for five minutes.”

I should have found it irritating.

I did find it irritating.

I also went back for another bowl.

We ate in silence until he picked all the blueberries out of his oatmeal and put them into mine.

I looked at him.

“I don’t dislike blueberries.”

“You looked disappointed in the portion.”

“I always look like this.”

“I’m learning.”

I ate them.

It would have been wasteful not to.

The nurse stayed through the afternoon.

I went home to shower, picked up clean clothes, and stopped at my mother’s place to return a container I’d had for three weeks.

She looked at me once and asked whether I was sleeping.

“Everybody’s suddenly interested in that.”

“Because your face gives people reason to worry.”

I drank coffee at her kitchen table while she searched a cupboard for the hospital papers Lucy had mentioned.

The card was still there.

A plain white rectangle with a family-office number on it.

VALE.

I ran my thumb over the corner.

My mother watched.

“That boy’s yours?”

“He’s my employer.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

I put the card down.

“He’s difficult.”

“So are you.”

“I’m charming.”

“Eat something.”

She pushed a sandwich toward me, effectively ending the argument.

When I returned to Adrian’s apartment, he was on the sofa with a blanket over his legs. The nurse gave me an update before leaving, and Adrian pretended he hadn’t been watching the door.

I could tell because he had his script upside down.

I took it from him and turned it around.

“Challenging role?”

His ears went pink.

I liked that far more than I should have.

The next day, he was steady enough to walk around the apartment without assistance.

I made him prove it by going to the kitchen for his own tea.

He returned with two mugs.

“Look at that,” I said. “An independent man.”

“I’m trying to impress you.”

“Start by remembering your phone exists.”

He accepted that with a quiet nod.

We sat at opposite ends of the sofa. He had changed into a gray sweater, and his hair was clean again. Familiar details began returning: the straight posture, the calm face, the way he seemed to belong in every room.

I should have found it easier when he looked less vulnerable.

Instead, I found him distracting in an entirely different way.

He noticed me rubbing my shoulder.

“The airport bruise still hurts?”

“Only when people ask.”

“Could I see?”

I looked at him.

He held my gaze, then added, “You can say no. I know you can check it yourself.”

That made refusing feel less necessary.

I turned and lifted the back of my T-shirt.

His fingers didn’t touch me.

He looked, then said the bruise was fading.

“Good.”

As I lowered the shirt, his hand hovered beside my shoulder.

“Your seam’s caught.”

I nodded.

He smoothed it carefully.

The touch lasted a second.

I thought about it considerably longer.

That evening, we cooked.

I cooked. Adrian sliced vegetables at a pace suitable for someone paid by the hour.

“Have you ever held a knife before?”

“I’ve played a chef.”

“That explains nothing.”

He gave me an offended look and produced one particularly uneven carrot slice.

I took the knife, demonstrated, and handed it back.

He stood close to watch.

His shoulder brushed mine.

Neither of us moved.

I concentrated on the pan.

There were normal reasons to stand close in a kitchen. Limited space, for example.

His kitchen could have hosted a small conference.

I chose not to dwell on that.

At dinner, he asked what I wanted to do if I stopped working security.

“I told you. Teach.”

“Do you still want that?”

I put my fork down.

“No one’s ever asked whether it was still an option.”

“I’m asking now.”

I looked at the plate.

There had always been something else to pay for. Something more urgent. I’d gotten good at delaying things until the delay looked like a decision.

“Maybe,” I said.

Adrian nodded, as if maybe deserved to be taken seriously.

He didn’t offer to buy me a gym.

I was grateful for that, too.

Later, he went to his bedroom to put away laundry.

I followed with the sweatshirt he’d left on the sofa.

He was standing beside the dresser, folding a shirt badly.

I took it from him.

“You’re going to crease that.”

“You’re very critical of my domestic skills.”

“You have so few. I need to appreciate the opportunities.”

He smiled.

I folded the shirt and set it down.

Then I stayed.

His gaze moved to my face.

“What?”

I could have said nothing.

I could have handed over the sweatshirt and left.

Instead, I looked at his mouth.

Adrian went still.

The silence changed.

“You’re better?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Clearheaded?”

“Completely.”

“Good.”

I put my hand against his chest.

Not to push him away.

He looked down at it, then back at me.

“Cole—”

“If you make a joke, I’ll reconsider.”

He didn’t.

I stepped closer and kissed him.

For a moment, he barely moved. Then his hand settled at my waist, careful, and he kissed me back.

It was warm and unhurried.

I had spent days inventing explanations for wanting to stand near him.

There wasn’t one left that could explain this.

When I drew back, he looked at me with an expression I’d never seen on a billboard.

I touched his jaw once.

“This doesn’t fix everything.”

“I know.”

“It means I wanted to kiss you.”

His thumb moved against my side.

“I can work with that.”

I kissed him again before he got too pleased with the answer.