There was a knock at the door.
I wasn’t expecting anyone. Which should’ve been a red flag.
So naturally, I opened the door without thinking.
Wrapped in an oversized hoodie that did nothing to hide the fact that it was probably mine, cheeks flushed, lips pale, eyes glassy.
Celestia Moreau. The billionaire’s brat. My... girlfriend?
She looked like death.
"Uh," I said, stepping back, "what—?"
"I think I’m dying," she croaked dramatically, stepping inside without waiting for permission.
"You’re sick," I corrected, shutting the door behind her. "You should be in a hospital."
She collapsed on my couch, pulled the hoodie tighter around her. "I hate hospitals."
"Then call your family doctor. Don’t tell me you don’t have one."
"I don’t," she mumbled, eyes fluttering closed.
She coughed. Violently.
And smiled through it like she’d just won a chess match.
"Fine," I muttered. "Stay. But only until you feel better. And don’t puke on anything."
She gave me a thumbs up and laid down like she owned the place.
I should’ve said no. Should’ve kicked her out and called someone, anyone.
Because I’m a nice guy.
A stupid, weak-spined, utterly-screwed nice guy.
Turns out taking care of a sick Celestia was harder than surviving her healthy version.
She didn’t do vulnerable. She weaponized it.
She kept making little sounds — whines, soft sighs — every time I gave her medicine or handed her a glass of water.
"You’re really good at this," she murmured from under the blanket, eyes fluttering open just enough to make contact. "Like... boyfriend material."
"You have a fever," I deadpanned.
"I know." She smiled. "It’s your fault. You infected me... with feelings."
I dropped the thermometer.
She laughed. Coughed. Winced. And then curled up tighter on my couch.
> "You need to stop pretending you’re not in love with me."
She patted the space beside her.
"I feel cold," she whispered.
"I’ll get another blanket."
She pouted. "You’re so mean to sick people."
I sighed then sat down beside her.
She instantly latched onto my arm like a koala with abandonment issues.
> "Shh. Sick people don’t listen to logic."
Around midnight, she sat up and declared she wasn’t going home.
"What do you mean not going home?"
> "No one’s gonna notice I’m gone. I sleep in one of the guest wings. The staff assumes I travel. Perks of being the favorite daughter of a billionaire."
I sighed again — probably for the fiftieth time that night.
"You’re sleeping on the couch," I said.
She raised an eyebrow. "You mean our couch?"
> "Your bed’s small. But I’m smaller."
She wasn’t wrong but she was dangerous and insane.
And possibly running a high fever.
Yet somehow, that made her even more terrifying.
She fell asleep beside me.
She curled into me like I was a pillow with a pulse. Arms wrapped around my chest, her leg thrown over mine. And yeah — I didn’t sleep much. Or at all.
She was warm. And soft. And smelled like vanilla and rebellion.
A terrified, half-hard, emotionally-conflicted guy with a death wish.
Because even though I was trying to stay still, trying not to breathe too loud or shift too close — she kept moving in her sleep. Kept tightening her hold. Kept nuzzling into my chest like she belonged there.
That look she gave me earlier — right before she dozed off.
It wasn’t smug orr playful orr teasing, it was soft, open... Real.
Like she was actually falling for me.
And that was worse than all the seductive smirks and wild glances before.
And that scared me more than anything else.