Chapter 7
Ella's POV
The fever had broken.
I woke to light slipping through a gap in the curtain, falling across the opposite wall. The heaviness in my head was mostly gone, and the dense ache that had been sitting in my bones all night had faded to almost nothing.
I sat up and peeled the fever patch off my forehead. It had gone cold.
It had been changed more than once. I remembered, vaguely, someone coming close in the dark — the blanket pulled back up, something cool pressed to my forehead, careful enough that I barely stirred. I'd been too exhausted to open my eyes. I just knew someone had been there and hadn't left.
I looked down at the floor.
The folding mat in the corner was neatly folded, blanket stacked on top of it, sitting there like an accusation. That was where Cade had slept. I'd had his bed. He'd spent the night on the floor.
I stared at it, and something I couldn't quite name moved through me.
He hadn't crossed a line. Not when he cleaned my hand, not when he changed the fever patch, not when he gave up his bed and slept on the floor.
He'd done it all without looking at me differently, without asking for anything. Someone else might not have been like that. But he was, like it hadn't even occurred to him to be any other way.
I'd been so sure that after what happened that night, I would be afraid of him.
I wasn't.
I didn't know what to do with that.
He'd lost his job because of me. He couldn't even sleep in his own bed. I sat on the edge of the mattress and looked around the room — old walls, paint cracking along the seams, a few worn technical manuals on the shelf with titles I couldn't make out anymore.
The whole room was clean in a way that felt almost bare, like someone who had lived here a long time but never quite decided to stay.
I needed to figure something out. Fast.
I reached under the pillow and found my phone. I stared at the number for a few seconds.
Yesterday I'd called and called. It rang out every time.
I'd try once more. If it still didn't go through — I didn't let myself finish the thought.
It rang twice. Then someone picked up.
My heart lurched.
"...Hello?" A woman's voice, guarded.
"I know," I said, keeping my voice low, pressing it down. "I know we've already talked about this. I just wanted to ask — maybe there's a way —"
"Ella." She cut me off. "We've been very clear with you. You grew up with the Sterlings. Between you and us — we don't have the means. You can't come here."
My fingers tightened around the phone. I could feel my nails pressing into the case.
"...I understand," I said. My throat had gone tight. "Yes. I understand."
She said something else after that, her voice flatter now, more distant. I didn't interrupt. I just looked down at the line of stitching on the blanket and kept my eyes there while the heat built behind mine.
"...It's fine," I said finally. My voice had gone somewhere else entirely, somewhere level and removed, like I was talking about a stranger's problem. "Sorry to bother you."
I hung up.
The screen went dark. The room went quiet.
I sat on the edge of the bed and didn't move. The tears didn't come — I just felt hollowed out, like something had been scooped from the middle of me and the space left behind was too numb to hurt yet.
That's it, then.
The Sterlings didn't want me. I'd known that. But I'd held onto that number like it was the last thread.
Now it wasn't. They'd picked up this time. They'd listened. And then they'd said no.
The bathroom door was half open. I looked in and saw two toothbrushes sitting on the edge of the sink — one dark gray, already unwrapped; one pink, still sealed in its box.
I stared at the pink one for a moment.
"That one's yours."
I turned around. Cade was standing in the hallway, a mug in his hand, wearing a dark long-sleeved work shirt with the cuffs pulled down to his wrists.
His hair was uncombed, but he looked wide awake — like he'd been up for a while.
"Fixed the pipe this morning," he said, stepping past me into the bathroom. He reached over and turned the hot water handle. "Give it about twenty seconds. Turn this one first, then adjust this one." He demonstrated. The water shifted from cold to warm, steam beginning to rise.
I stood in the doorway and watched.
"Okay," I said.
He turned it back off and moved to leave. I stepped aside. The floor was still damp — I didn't notice it until my foot slid out from under me.
His arm caught me at the waist.
I landed against his chest, my hand pressed flat against his forearm, his other hand coming up instinctively to steady my shoulder. Neither of us moved.
He was tall. I'd known that, but not like this — at this distance I realized the top of my head barely cleared his jaw. There was a faint smell of motor oil on him, and underneath it, soap.
His hand was large and very warm, the heat coming through the fabric like he'd been standing near something lit.
The memory of that night came back without warning.
Heat rushed to my face. I didn't know where to look, so I stared at the front of his shirt, aware of a low, dull ache in my lower abdomen — just present, and impossible to ignore right now.
Don't.
He shifted slightly. I thought he was going to step back, but instead he raised one hand and pressed the back of it to my forehead, holding it there for a couple of seconds.
"Fever's down," he said, steady, like he was reading a gauge. "You good?"
It was only then I realized I was still leaning against him.
I pulled back half a step. By the time I looked up, he'd already dropped his hand and settled into a neutral stance, like nothing had happened.
"I'm good," I said. "Thanks."
He nodded once and walked out.
When I came out after washing up, I found the kitchen and living room were open to each other.
Small, but clean. Nothing extra. Cade was at the kitchen counter, sliding a packet of bread and a small square of butter toward the edge, a glass of orange juice already set out beside them.
"Eat," he said, picking his jacket off the back of the chair. "I'm heading out. Back by evening."
I sat down on the stool and pulled the bread bag open.
He took a folded stack of bills from his pocket and set it on the counter. "That's for you. Grab something at the convenience store for lunch. When I get back tonight, we'll go pick up whatever you need — make a list if you think of things."
I looked at the money. Didn't touch it.
"Cade," I said.
He stopped and looked at me. His jacket was half on, one arm through the sleeve, and he waited without any particular expression on his face.
"You slept on the floor last night," I said. "You didn't have to do that."
A short pause. He finished pulling the jacket on, smoothing the collar down with one hand. "You had a fever."
"I don't anymore."
"That was last night." Not hard, just final. He picked up his keys from the counter without looking at me. "If you've got questions, ask me tonight."
He crossed to the door and paused with his hand on the frame.
"Lock up."
The door clicked shut. I listened to his footsteps disappear down the hall, the stairwell door open and close, and then nothing.
I looked at the bread bag on the counter. Then at the lock on the door, which I still hadn't turned.
Okay. He'd be back by evening. That gave me a few hours. I could either sit here and wait for someone to tell me what to do next — or I could figure it out myself.
I got up and locked the door.
