Chapter 6

Cade's POV

I stayed where I was.

Ella set the rest of her slice back in the box, pressed her hands flat against her thighs, and stared at a grease spot on the table. She didn't say anything.

Neither did I.

The coffee on the table had gone cold. I picked it up, didn't drink, set it back down.

I'd thought about how to say it — that I didn't mean for her to shower in cold water, that the red knob had been there the whole time, that next time I'd tell her first. But what was the point? She'd already done it. The water had already been cold. Explaining it wouldn't change the fact.

I glanced down at her hand.

There were a few red marks on her right hand where the valve had scraped her. The edges were already starting to scab over.

How long had she been in there trying to make it work?

I'd worked at Sterling Estate. I knew what their bathrooms looked like — motion-sensor faucets, temperature control panels mounted on the wall. You pressed one button, and the water locked itself to whatever degree you wanted.

That's how she'd lived.

Today she'd stood alone in front of a set of rusted valves, held out under cold water for god knows how long, and still managed to shut off a burst pipe on her own.

The anger wasn't aimed at her. I couldn't say what it was aimed at — maybe the busted plumbing, maybe myself, because it hadn't even occurred to me to tell her beforehand.

I stood up without explaining, went to the kitchen and pulled the first aid kit from the bottom cabinet, came back, and pushed it across the table toward her.

"Give me your hand."

She looked up at me, hesitated for a second, then held it out.

I took a cotton pad, soaked it in disinfectant, and ran it lightly along the marks. Her hand was small. Her skin was so pale it was almost translucent. I tried to keep the pressure light, but when the disinfectant hit the raw spots, she still sucked in a breath, her fingers curling slightly.

"Tell me if it hurts."

"I'm fine," she said. Her voice shook a little.

I didn't believe her. I kept going slow, pressed two small bandages over the scrapes, then let go of her hand.

She pulled it back, glanced at it, and said thank you quietly.

Her voice sounded weak. I noticed then that her cheeks were flushed in a way that didn't look normal, so I pressed the back of my hand to her forehead. Warmer than it should be.

I pulled the first aid kit closer, dug out a fever patch and a box of cold medicine, peeled the patch open and pressed it to her forehead, then slid the medicine across the table.

"Drink it."

She tore the packet open, poured it into a cup, mixed it with warm water, and drank it in one go.

"You take my room."

"Then you—"

"I'll sleep on the floor," I said. "I've slept in worse places."

She didn't argue.

I cleared out the bedroom, pulled a folding mat down from the top of the closet and spread it against the wall, and threw a spare blanket over it. When Ella came in, I switched off the overhead light and left the bedside lamp on.

She glanced at the mat on the floor, glanced at me, looked like she wanted to say something, then didn't. She sat down on the edge of the bed, slowly lay back, pulled the blanket up to her chin, and closed her eyes.

I sat down on the mat with my back against the wall, pulled my laptop over, and turned the screen brightness down as low as it would go.

It didn't take long before her breathing stretched out, slowed down, and she fell asleep.

I didn't sleep much that night. Fever patches needed changing every two hours, so I just sat there, listened to her breathe, pulled the blanket back over her whenever she kicked it off, swapped out the patch whenever it got warm, and stayed awake until it was almost light.

Around four in the morning, she was sleeping deeply. Her breathing was even. Most of the flush had faded from her face.

She'd turned onto her side at some point, facing the wall. The lamplight caught the edge of her cheek — just the line of it, the angle of her jaw, the way her hair had fallen across her face.

I looked away.

But it was already too late. Something I'd spent two years pressing down came back up without asking permission.

Two years ago. I was at CCAD dropping off materials for someone, waiting outside the design building. She came out through the hallway wearing a beige jacket, her hair down, the ends lifting in the wind.

She paused on the steps, dipped her head to dig through her bag, then looked up. Her eyes passed over me. We locked eyes for one second.

Then she left.

I stood there, watched her disappear around the corner, and only remembered I was supposed to be waiting for someone a long time after that.

Later I asked the guy I'd been delivering for what her name was, what department she was in. He laughed and said Forget it — Sterling family daughter, first-year design student, family's loaded, regular people don't even get close.

I said I was just asking.

He said Sure, just asking.

I didn't ask again after that. Figured that was it. No reason our paths would ever cross.

Then I started driving for the Sterlings, and on my first day I saw her at the far end of a hallway. I froze for a second, then turned and walked the other way. Every time after that, I made sure I knew where she might be. If I could take a different route, I did. If I could avoid her, I did.

I knew exactly what I was and what she was. That line wasn't mine to cross.

You know you're not good enough, so don't even let yourself think in that direction.

That's what I kept telling myself.

But tonight, watching her curled up on that old bed, wearing my oversized black shirt with the sleeves covering her fingertips, a fever patch stuck to her forehead—

I thought about what she'd done today. Pushed the pizza over to my side and told me to eat more. Shut off a burst pipe on her own. Sat at the table without complaining once.

I'd thought she'd break. Thought she'd tell me she couldn't take it, that I needed to figure something else out.

But she didn't.

She was tougher than I'd expected.

---

The next morning, she was still asleep.

I went to the kitchen, boiled water, made myself a cup of black coffee, and sat down in the chair by the window. I pulled my laptop over, planning to pick up where I'd left off with the code from last night.

Then I heard her voice.

It came through the crack under the bedroom door, low and muffled, but the walls were too thin.

…I know, I just wanted to ask if maybe…

A pause.

…I understand. Yes, I understand.

Another stretch of silence, longer than the first.

…It's okay. Sorry to bother you.

Then the sound of her hanging up.

I sat there with my fingers on the keyboard. I didn't press anything.

I had a pretty good idea who that number belonged to. After she'd been thrown out of the Sterling house, she'd tried calling it. No one had picked up. Now she'd tried again. Someone answered this time. And then—

It's okay. Sorry to bother you.

I lifted the coffee cup. The coffee was cold.

Then I closed the laptop.

I'd ask her in a few days, once she felt better. Not today — today she needed to sleep, eat, and get her fever down.

But in a few days, I was going to sit across from her and ask her one question, straight out.

Do you want to get married?

If she said no again, I'd help her figure out what came next. I'd make sure she had somewhere to go.

But if she said yes—

Then I'd better start working on becoming someone worth saying yes to.