Page 67 of He Should Be Mine
“Molly,” I breathe.
He doesn’t speak. Maybe he still can’t. But his fingers shift against the blanket like he wants to reach for me.
And just like that, the world rights itself.
The machines keep beeping. The nurses murmur at the end of the corridor. But in here, in this room with its sterile bed and sharp-clean smell, it’s just us.
Him. Me. His eyes on mine.
And I don’t care about the rest of it. The waiting. The judgment. The reports and questions and what-ifs.
He asked for me.
And I’m here.
Chapter eighteen
Molly
I’ve never been so happy to see a sofa.
It’s not even that comfortable. It’s one of those sleek, sharp-angled, despite being over-stuffed, things that some interior designer picked because it ‘photographs well,’ and matches the ‘aesthetic.’ As if normal people plan to stage magazine shoots in their apartments. But right now, it might as well be a bed made of clouds.
Dario helps me down onto it with all the care of someone handling a cracked vase. I don’t protest. I’m too tired to pretend I’m not a mess, and too sick to pretend I don’t need help.
The moment I sink into the cushions, my body sighs. My joints ache, my throat still feels like sandpaper soaked in vinegar, and my head is still swimming from the hospital’s too-bright lights and the chemical sting of antiseptic. But at least I’m not lying in a hospital bed anymore with a plastic cuff around my arm and strangers prodding at my veins.
I hate hospitals. They smell like bleach and fear. Everything’s too clean, too fluorescent. You’re always ondisplay, always one curt voice away from being reminded that you’re not in control of your own body anymore.
The apartment might be a cage, a gilded one, but at least it’s mine. Or close enough. The walls are familiar. The air smells like bergamot and leather and whatever subtle cologne Dario wears that always lingers longer than it should.
He bends down in front of me, adjusting the blanket he pulled out earlier. It’s the same one he used the night I was sick on the sofa. It’s all soft gray, clean cotton and smells like home now.
I feel like I should say something, some clever quip, or a thank you, or a flirty remark about how I could get used to this. But the words stay trapped behind my dry, swollen throat. All I can manage is a faint exhale.
Dario doesn’t seem to expect a performance from me. He just tucks the blanket under my arms and brushes my hair back from my forehead with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.
“Need anything?” he asks, voice low.
I shake my head, barely.
He nods and stands. “I’ll bring your meds in an hour. Water’s here.” He points to the glass on the table. “You want soup later?”
I nod again. The movement takes effort.
He hesitates like he wants to say more, then just gives a small grunt and walks into the kitchen.
I let my head tip back against the cushions. The silence is a comfort now, not the echo of emptiness it used to be. I can hear him on the other side of the room. The clink of dishes, the quiet thud of a cabinet door. It soothes me more than anything else could.
This shouldn’t feel good. This shouldn’t feel safe. I’m still sick. I’m still Rick’s. My body is still marked in ways Dario hasn’t seen. And yet…
Dario’s warmth is filling the apartment. It almost feels like I’m not entirely alone anymore.
And for the first time in days, I let my eyes slip closed, not because I’m giving up, but because I can.
This is nice. It is peaceful and calm. My muscles feel languid. Is this what it feels like to not be scared?
I don’t know. Whatever it is, I like it and I want more of it. I’m going to lie here on this sofa and lap up Dario’s presence.
