Page 92 of Bleed

I definitely didn’t leave my robe there.

I distinctly remember hanging it on the hook in the bathroom before slipping into my dress last night. Which means someone moved it.

My eyes drift toward the ceiling. He’s up there, fast asleep in synthetic darkness, while I’m down here wearing the fingerprints he left on my hips.

Did he carry me in here last night?

I picture those impossibly strong arms lifting me with ease, pulling the blankets over me, bringing my robe in from the bathroom because I might want it when I woke up…

No. Don’t read into it, Bex.

I scrub a hand over my face, refusing to invent romantic subplots because the man relocated a bathrobe.

Snagging it off the end of the bed, I shrug into the silk and shuffle toward the bathroom, wincing a little with each step. Every twinge is a reminder of a night well spent.

I squint against the harsh lighting as I push the door open, pausing in front of the mirror to rub away the dark eyeliner smudged beneath my eyes. It takes me all of two seconds to realize that someone’s been in here, too.

The ledge beside the soaker tub is suddenly stocked like the luxury spa aisle of a department store, filled with an array of new products. Everything from bath bombs and Epsom salts to scented bubbles and oils.

For a long moment, all I can do is stare.

Did he go shopping after I passed out?

The question sends my brain down an avenue I’m not prepared to explore, so I quickly abandon it in favor of brushing my teeth, washing my face, and generally pretending this level of thoughtfulness is a perfectly normal thing for someone to do after a hookup.

By the time I wander into the kitchen, there’s no denying Elliott Faulkner’s concept of aftercare exists in a league of its own.

The marble island is a crime scene of carbs and fruit– flaky croissants, an artfully arranged pile of strawberries and blueberries, and a glass pitcher of orange juice on a marble tray. There’s also a handwritten note directing me to hydrate and replenish my nutrients, along with a business card for a private massage therapist who’s apparently on standby and awaiting my call. Because naturally, the Nobel Prize-winning scientist approaches aftercare like he’s writing post-operative discharge orders.

Water, painkillers, hangover pills, weighted blanket, luxury bath products, breakfast, massage therapist… did this man spend the rest of the night systematically working through a recovery checklist?

Once again, all I can do is stare, torn between rolling my eyes and giggling like a schoolgirl.

I’ve had plenty of hookups in my life, and the most I’ve gotten afterward is an awkward ‘see you around’. A rare few offered cab fare, but not once has someone left me with a full-blown recovery kit. I want to be annoyed by the absurdity of it all, but the truth is… it’s kinda nice.

Way nicer than I deserve.

I don’t get pampered. Even as a kid, anything beyond basic necessities was a luxury that wasn’t afforded to kids in the system. I can’t remember a time anyone truly cared for or looked after me, and I learned a long time ago that if I needed something, I’d better figure it out myself. So I have no idea what to do with this.

Part of me wants to see it for what it is– a sweet, thoughtful gesture from someone who spent half the night making sure I’d wake up comfortable. The other part remembers exactly what he whispered before I passed out.

Mine.

And suddenly, all the little acts of care become harder to categorize. I can’t decide whether I’m being cared for by a lover or meticulously maintained by someone protecting something he considers valuable. A possession. The distinction feels important, yet somehow impossible to make.

It’s… confusing, to say the least.

My stomach chooses that moment to growl loud enough to interrupt the existential crisis.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter.

I reach for a strawberry, then quickly decide fruit is entirely too responsible for my current emotional state and grab a chocolate croissant instead. The pastry is flaky and perfect, the chocolate melting on my tongue. I’m licking a smear of it off my fingers when my phone vibrates against the marble countertop, the screen lighting up with an incoming call from Bite.

My pulse kicks. I immediately abandon the croissant and snatch up the phone, smearing chocolate across the screen when I swipe to answer.

“Hello?”

“Miss Hamilton,” Fran’s smooth voice purrs from the other end. “This is Francesca Fox. I just sent over a proposed addendum to your current contract, which you can access through the secure message portal in our app.”