His eyes flutter open, confusion clouding them momentarily before he focuses on me. “You’re still here.”

“Where else would I be?”

Running far away from this situation that’s getting messier by the minute, probably.

He takes the pills and water without further argument, which tells me just how terrible he must be feeling. When he drains the glass, I take it back to the kitchen for a refill.

“You don’t have to do this,” he calls after me, voice hoarse.

“I know.”

And that’s the thing. I reallydon’thave to. Our agreement doesn’t cover nursing duties. But the thought of leaving him alone like this, burning with fever and too stubborn to admit he needs help, doesn’t sit right with me. I tell myself anyone in my position would do it. That I’m just being a good Samaritan.

But am I really?

I return with more water and a damp washcloth. He eyes the cloth suspiciously.

“For your forehead,” I explain. “It’ll help with the fever.”

“Had a nanny once who did that,” he mumbles as I place the cool cloth on his brow. “When Nico and I were sick as kids.”

The casual mention of his childhood catches me off guard. Dom rarely talks about his past.

“Did it help?” I ask, perching on the edge of the coffee table.

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Don’t remember. But she made this horrible Italian soup that tasted like punishment.”

I laugh softly. “Well, lucky for you, I draw the line at cooking. But I can order soup from that place you like on Lexington. It’s not Italian, but...”

His eyes find mine, something unreadable in their depths. “Why are you doing this?”

The question hangs between us, deceptively simple yet loaded with implications.

Because I’m a sucker for punishment? Because I secretly enjoy playing Florence Nightingale to impossible men? Because seeing you vulnerable makes you seem almost human? And attainable?

“I’d do the same for anyone,” I say finally.

It’s not entirely a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either. The whole truth is too complicated, too close to feelings I’m not ready to acknowledge.

Dom seems to accept this answer, or perhaps he’s simply too exhausted to press further. His eyes drift shut again.

“Rest,” I tell him firmly. “I’ll wake you when the soup arrives.”

I stand to leave, but his hand catches my wrist, surprisingly warm against my skin.

“Stay,” he murmurs, eyes still closed. “Just... for a minute. Please?”

The way he says that last word... so vulnerable, pleading, makes my eyes get all blurry. I quickly blink until I can see again.

He needs me. Reallyneedsme.

His grip is loose enough that I could easily pull away. Ishouldpull away.

Instead, I sink back down onto the edge of the coffee table. His fingers still lightly encircle my wrist.

“Okay,” I whisper.

We sit in silence broken only by the soft sound of his breathing, gradually evening out as he drifts toward sleep. I study his face, so rarely unguarded like this. The dark sweep of his lashes, the stubble shadowing his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows that persists even in rest.