Mel stirred slowly, sunlight threading through the curtains and settling warm across the blanket. Her body ached faintly, the kind of ache that comes after a long day, and for a moment she simply lay still, letting herself surface into the quiet room.
Across from her, Lucas sat with his phone forgotten in his hand, his eyes already on her.
"Alessandro…" she murmured, her voice thick with sleep.
He was beside her before she'd even finished pushing herself upright, his hand finding hers instantly.
"I'm here," he said softly. "Easy. Don't rush."
"It aches a little," she admitted, a small, embarrassed laugh escaping her. "Everywhere, honestly."
His mouth curved — not quite a smile, but close. "Everywhere," he repeated, as if turning the word over gently in his hands.
"Then everywhere gets taken care of."
He rose and crossed to his wardrobe, returning with one of his shirts. He didn't explain, just held it out with a quiet, "Here — it'll be lighter than anything else you brought."
She let him help her into it, his movements unhurried, careful, his hands lingering only long enough to make sure she was comfortable. The shirt swallowed her, sleeves falling past her wrists, and she caught his scent in the fabric — something steady and familiar that made her relax without meaning to.
"Better?" he asked.
"Better," she said, and meant it.
He picked up his phone and called the doctor.
Few minutes later, a soft knock came at the door. "The doctor's here, just for a check-up," Lucas said. "I wanted to be sure you were alright."
The old physician who entered had a kind, unhurried manner, and his exam was brief and gentle — a little tenderness in her shoulders, a little stiffness in her back, nothing more than what came from days of travel and too little rest.
"Some rest, warmth, and good food," the doctor said, smiling. "She'll be back to herself in a day or two."
Lucas nodded, something in his shoulders easing at the words.
Once the room was quiet again, he sat beside her, thumb tracing slow, absent circles over her hand.
"Stay," she said, barely above a whisper.
"Always," he answered, and settled in beside her, unwilling to be anywhere else.
She drifted back to sleep within minutes, her hand still curled loosely in his. Lucas stayed there a long while, watching the way the afternoon light moved across her face, thinking that he had never wanted to protect anything the way he wanted to protect this.
Later, as she slept on, he carried her gently to the sofa by the window so the room could be freshened, cradling her like something precious, careful not to wake her. He tucked a throw around her shoulders and knelt beside her for a moment, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
"You have no idea," he murmured, "what you've done to me."
Outside, the light softened into gold, and for once, everything in the room felt like peace.
Mel woke as the afternoon light was turning amber, and for a moment she didn't move, content just to watch dust motes drift through the sunbeam falling across the rug. Lucas was near the window, sleeves rolled to his elbows, quietly stacking a small tray of tea things he must have ordered while she slept.
"You're staring," he said, without turning around.
"I am not," she said, though she was.
He glanced back at her, amusement flickering at the corner of his mouth. "You've been staring since I heard your breathing change three minutes ago."
She flushed and pushed herself up a little straighter against the cushions, and he was there again in an instant, adjusting the throw around her shoulders before she could protest.
"I'm not made of glass," she said, though there was no real complaint in it.
"No," he agreed, setting the tray down on the low table between them. "But you're mine to look after, so you'll allow me the indulgence."
She didn't have an answer for that — not one she trusted herself to say aloud — so she busied herself with the teacup he handed her instead, the warmth of it seeping into her palms.
"What is it?" she asked, eyeing the pale gold liquid.
"Chamomile, mostly. And honey. My sister used to make it when I was sick as a boy." He said it plainly, but something flickered behind his eyes, some old, private memory he didn't often let surface.
"You were sick often?" Mel asked
"Often enough to remember the tea," he said, and left it there, though she noticed the way his gaze had gone distant for just a moment before returning to her.
They sat like that for a while, the room quiet except for the occasional clink of porcelain, the sky outside deepening slowly from gold to rose. She found herself watching the way the light caught the sharp lines of his face, softened now, unguarded in a way she rarely saw.
"Thank you," she said eventually. "For today. For all of it."
He looked at her for a long moment, as though weighing whether to say what he was thinking. "You don't have to thank me for that. Taking care of you isn't a duty, Mel. It's—" He stopped, seeming almost surprised by his own sincerity, then continued more quietly. "It's the only thing that's made sense to me in a long time."
She set her cup down, her chest tightening with something warm and unnameable. "Alessandro—"
"Don't," he said gently, reaching over to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering against her cheek. "Not tonight. Tonight, just let me sit here with you."
So she did.
Outside, the last light bled out of the sky, and the room filled with a soft, deepening blue. Neither of them reached to turn on a lamp. They stayed like that — her leaning slightly into his side, his arm settled loosely around her shoulders, the city beginning to glitter awake beyond the window — until the tea went cold and neither of them noticed, and neither of them minded at all.