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“Juice, then.” I stand up, feeling a pang of hunger. “I’m hungry, too. I’ll make—”
“Fergus is sending food. Sit down.” His words are a sharp command.
I don’t have it in me to rebel, so I shrug and then, folding my arms on the table, put my head down on them.
He doesn’t say anything, and then I feel a large hand stroking my hair as Zayn says, cheerfully, “You look like shit.”
I make a sound that is between a groan and a torn reluctant laugh. “That’s not helpful.”
> I can sense the smile in his voice. “Sorry.”
He doesn’t remove his hand from my hair, and I am oddly okay with it. I feel like I am floating in this haze and I am starting to enjoy the feeling of him stroking my hair.
Part of me warns me that this isn’t a good idea and I should pull away but the way his hand moves over my hair in gentle strokes, it is so comforting after the god awful week I had; I almost purr under his touch.
“Your fever is gone,” he remarks, his tone uncharacteristically gentle.
He is standing so close that I can almost feel the heat from his body.
Then he says, “You’re like a cat,” and the spell is immediately broken.
I straighten up and his hand falls away.
I rub my hands over my face. “I’m going to go take a shower. I smell like I haven’t showered in days.”
I don’t meet his eyes, but I feel his gaze boring into the side of my skull. “You haven’t.”
I stand up and groan at how my joints protest. “How long was I out?”
A hand at my elbow, steadying me. “Four days. The doctor was in and out every day. It wasn’t that serious, so there was no need to take you to the hospital. But I do have questions about how you drove yourself to this state.”
Under the calm tone is a hint of steel that conveys his displeasure and I frown, not enjoying the blame in his tone.
I want to flip him the bird, but after knowing that he probably spent his days cooped up in here with me, it felt too ungrateful. So, I just chose not to say anything and walk out.
I am in the shower for twenty minutes, the feeling of hot water over my skin making me feel better. My head still feels hollow, and I feel weak, but I lather my hair and wash it.
I forgot to take out some clothes, so I put on the bathrobe and sneak into my bedroom.
I am just pulling out a blouse when Zayn walks in, talking on his phone.
He stills when he sees me in the tiny bathrobe that hardly covers my generous assets, the edge of my butt on display. My hands clutch the blouse to my chest and the way his gaze moves over me, almost devouring me, hot possessiveness in that look, it makes my nipples harden, almost painfully so.
When our eyes meet, he just gives me a heated look before turning on his heel, almost abruptly, continuing his conversation on the phone. “Sorry about that. I got distracted. What were you saying?”
I stare at the door, still clutching the blouse to my chest, not knowing whether I should be insulted or embarrassed.
However, feeling the chill on my legs, I quickly slam the door shut and lock it, carefully, before changing.
When I leave the room, my insides are a tangled mess of confusion and feelings that I don’t know what to identify as. He is being kind, taking care of me, giving me looks like he just wants to strip me and fuck my brains out, and yet not making any obvious moves.
He told me he loved me.
He wants me in his life.
Why am I so scared of giving in?
Zayn is waiting in the kitchen, plating fresh food that must have just arrived, I muse vaguely. It smells heavenly and my stomach protests.
