Page 29 of Fixation
It’s way too early for that.
A twisted part of me likes the idea of having to work hard for her. So I can have her.
I want her to make me work even harder.
“Hmm.” Again.
“Yeah, you get me.” A small, rare smile plays on my lips. “Right from the start, I could tell we were meant to be. Your subconscious knows that. The rest of you will too.”
“Hmm.”
Before I step into her bathroom, I lay her down on her bed.
I mourn the loss of her warmth, but I’m not weak. I won’t curl up next to her.
Technically, it wouldn’t hurt me or my plans. I’m vaccinated regularly. I won’t catch whatever she might have.
But hugging her isn’t what I’m here for.
I’m here to help.
Detachment is a powerful thing. I’ve used it while killing strangers.
I’ve used it when a family member sobs outside the OR, begging for a trauma patient to live.
And I’ll use it again.
That same detachment will carry me through what needs to be done. It’s what helps me cocoon her inside her blanket and step into the bathroom instead of crawling into bed beside her.
Where I lose my shit all over again.
Because fuck me.
Harper’s hamper is full.
I drag a hand over my jaw, cursing myself all over again.
Forgetting tomorrow’s her laundry day just adds to the long list of my sins.
First, I missed the signs of her getting sick. Now this.
“You don’t have to worry about your laundry, Miss Arlington,” I vow as soon as I’m back at her bedside.
“This is a home visit. That means I’m here to do everything for you.” Since putting her clothes in the washing machine will take some time, I grab another blanket from her closet and pull it over her. “Consider this as a complimentary service. A compensation for my negligence.”
Before I return to her laundry, I watch her. This fevered, fragile thing wrapped up exactly how I want her.
Her red mane and flushed face peek out. Her gentle features, tinted in surgical gray-blue, make her look like something laid out on a sterile table under the moonlight. Ready for me.
I place one pillow on either side of her body so she won’t roll over while I’m in the other room.
One more gaze, and I leave for the basement. Since Harper hasn’t worn anything white this week, I throw everything together into the washing machine.
Everything but one of her black sports bras.
For the longest second of my life, I consider what to do with it. The sweat has dried, but Harper’s smell lingers. Clean. Soft. Gentle.
There’s so much of her in that one piece of clothing.
