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I’ll take care of you forever, she wanted to promise, but of course she couldn’t. He wasn’t going to be around that long. There was no point in saying it.

“I’ll get you another blanket,” she said, turning, suddenly overwhelmed by feeling. He reached out and grabbed her hand, his fingers cold.

“Luce,” he whispered. “Don’t go.”

“But you need another blanket,” she said, voice soft. He was shivering again.

“Please,” he said, holding on to her hand. His eyes closed, but he still didn’t let go.

Well. He was still cold, and they couldn’t have that. She did a little spell to warm him—which was the only reason she kept holding on to his hand.

He was sick for the next few days, though she and Charles made him stay home. It was an infection, and he had to take antibiotics for it. Since it wasn’t the busy season, she managed without him, but she felt restless the entire time.

She couldn’t bear to have him out of sight, and the thought of him in distress caused her stress, which was why she swung by Charles’s at the end of each day to check on him.

He was doing a bit better by the end of the third day. When she went to his room, he was sitting up in bed, reading. He was wearing an undershirt with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His hair was damp, as if he’d recently showered, and there was stubble on his cheeks.

“Hi,” she said, standing at the door.

“Hi.” He put his book down, and she walked in.

“How are you?” She touched a hand to his forehead, which wasn’t as hot as it had been the past few days.

“I think I’ll be back tomorrow or the day after,” he said, giving her a soft smile. “Doing loads better.”

“Good! That’s great.”

“Walked around a bit and even showered today.” He rubbed a hand over his cheek. “Still too tired to properly shave, though.”

“Do you need some help?” she asked.

He blinked. “If—if you don’t mind.”

Her heart pounded. “Not at all.”

He took the blanket off his shoulders and got out of bed, leaving his book and glasses there. He was wearing flannel pajama pants and was barefoot as he grabbed his desk chair and brought it to the bathroom.

Swallowing, she stepped in after him, and he sat down. The bathroom was still steamy, the air warm. He pointed to his shaving cream and razor out on the sink counter. He looked tired from the movements, though his eyes were vivid as they stared at her.

“Tilt your head for me,” Lucy said, and he leaned against the chair’s back, looking up at her.

The thin chain on his neck caught the light, and she resisted the urge to touch it. Instead, she rolled the sleeves of her cardigan—thankful as she hovered above him that all the buttons were done up—and put shaving cream on one hand. She stepped between his open knees to get close to him, stopping as her legs hit the chair.

She leaned forward, breathing in the scent of his shampooed hair. Slowly, she spread the shaving cream onto his face, taking her time as she felt around his skin and bones, moving over his jaw, his neck.

All the while, he stared up at her, eyes darkening the closer she got, the more she touched him. His pupils were blown wide, his breathing heavy.

She stepped away, washing her hands, then reached for the razor, slowly closing the space between them. With the proximity to his body and the heat emanating off his chest, she felt unsteady. Her legs swayed.

He reached out, hands coming to her legs to hold her in place. Her breathing hitched.

“I don’t know how I feel with you and a sharp razor so close to my throat,” he said, voice low.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll be gentle.”

“That’s all I want, Luce,” he said, voice hoarse. “For you to be gentle with me.”

His eyes were open, honest and vulnerable. Her chest tightened.