Friday evening arrived.
Mr. Lu pulled up at the entrance of the Huang mansion. After thanking him, I stepped out and walked inside, removing my shoes and coat before placing them neatly in the closet.
As I made my way down the hallway toward the kitchen, I paused at the entrance of the living room.
Harley was lying on the three-seater couch, one arm draped over his face as if trying to block out the world.
The purse slipped from my fingers and fell to the floor as I hurried over, dropping to my knees beside him. Up close, his breathing sounded heavier than usual.
"Harley, are you okay?"
"Go away."
My lips pressed together tightly. "No. Now tell me what's wrong."
"Sophie."
The way he said my name — low, firm, final — told me he was done with the conversation. A boundary had been drawn.
When had he gotten so stubborn? Fine. Two could play that game.
I stood slowly and walked out of the room, but the uneasy weight in my chest refused to settle.
In the kitchen, I prepared his favorite soup — the one he always asked for when he wasn't feeling well. I poured a glass of water and placed painkillers on a tray before carrying everything back.
He hadn't moved.
I set the tray down on the coffee table and gently placed my palm against his forehead.
Heat met my skin instantly.
"You're running a fever," I murmured. It wasn't surprising at all. He had always been a workaholic, the kind of man who forgot to eat, sleep, or breathe when work demanded his attention.
His eyes opened slowly. Irritation flickered through them before he pushed my hand away and forced himself upright.
"I said leave me alone."
No.
"You're sick," I insisted, stepping closer.
"I don't need you."
Yes, you do. If I didn't take care of you, who would?
The words were sharp and deliberate. He stood abruptly and brushed past me without even glancing at the tray. Typical. Even sick, he refused to give me the smallest courtesy.
My chest tightened as I watched him walk toward the stairs, shoulders rigid, pride intact even while fever burned through him.
Without thinking, I followed.
He reached his bedroom and pushed the door open. I stepped inside before he could close it.
"Harley, stop being stubborn," I snapped, frustration slipping through the ache. "You're clearly not okay."
He turned sharply and grabbed my wrist.
For a second, we stood too close. His grip wasn't painful, but it was firm. I could feel the heat radiating from his skin, see the faint sheen of sweat near his temples.
Then my back hit the mattress.
He hovered over me, one arm braced beside my head, the other still holding my wrist. His eyes were cold, dangerous — but underneath that control was strain.
"I could take you right here, right now, you know."
His voice was low and measured.
I looked up at him steadily. Even with my heart racing, there was no fear.
"No, you won't," I said softly, turning my face slightly. "The Harley I know is very considerate."
His jaw clenched. Something flickered across his expression — conflict, restraint, something he refused to let surface.
He released me abruptly and stepped back, sitting on the edge of the bed with his elbows resting on his knees.
"Get out of my room. Now."
I stood slowly, smoothing my clothes.
"You should at least take the medicine," I said quietly.
He didn't answer.
I stepped out and closed the door behind me. Seconds later, something shattered inside the room.
The sharp sound of breaking glass echoed down the hallway. I froze, fingers curling at my sides. Every instinct told me to go back, but I remained where I was.
He needed space.
Even if it hurt.
That night, sleep wouldn't come easily.
When a rough cough echoed faintly down the hallway, I stared at the ceiling for a long moment before pushing the blanket aside and standing.
His bedroom door was slightly open.
I slipped inside quietly.
He was still in his clothes, lying on top of the covers, one arm thrown over his eyes as if even in sleep he refused comfort.
I stepped closer and pressed my palm to his forehead again.
Still warm.
Carefully, I removed his shoes and jacket. His movements were sluggish, his body too exhausted to resist even unconsciously. I pulled the covers over him and placed a cool cloth against his forehead.
He stirred slightly but didn't wake.
Instead of leaving, I dragged the chair closer and sat beside his bed.
The room was quiet except for the steady rhythm of his breathing.
There was a time when he would have leaned into my touch instead of pushing it away. A time when caring for him didn't feel like crossing a boundary.
Will we ever be like that again? I wasn't sure how much hope we had left.
My fingers hovered near his hand before retreating. I wasn't sure when things between us had become this fragile.
Morning light slowly filtered through the curtains. The mattress shifted, pulling me from sleep.
He was awake.
Watching me.
"You had a fever," I said quietly, straightening in the chair.
He pushed himself up slowly, jaw tight. "I told you to leave me alone."
"You were sick."
His gaze moved around the room — the folded jacket, the empty glass, the damp cloth resting in the bowl. A subtle flicker passed through his eyes before he looked away.
"You didn't have to stay."
"I know."
The silence that followed felt heavier than the words themselves.
I stood and walked toward the door, steadying my breathing.
"…Thank you."
His voice was low and reluctant. He still wasn't looking at me.
My fingers tightened slightly around the doorframe before I answered softly, "You're welcome."
I stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind me.
The house felt unusually quiet.
It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't warmth. But it wasn't indifference either — and for now, that small crack in the distance between us was enough.