Oliver’s POV
The door swung open before I could ask Vicky what she ant, and she instantly turned her back on , shoulders stiff, breathing uneven. Seconds later, she slipped into the bathroom, shutting the door quietly, as if afraid her emotions might spill into the room.
Ria, Heidi, and several of my n rushed inside.
"Boss! You’re awake!" Rob—Ria’s boyfriend and my head of security, exclaid with a relieved grin.
I forced a smirk, trying to redirect the attention away from the bathroom door. "Miss already?"
"Damn right we did," Rob said, clapping the side of my bed railing. "Next ti, maybe leave the fighting to us? You’ve already done your lifeti quota of near-death experiences. You hired us for this, and yet you dove in first."
I chuckled, though the movent made my shoulder throb. Still, hearing them laugh eased sothing inside my chest. They started recounting everything, each giving their own exaggerated version of the shoot-out. I let myself sink into their voices for a mont. Their relief. Their loyalty. I was grateful none of them were seriously hurt.
But then a thought slamd into .
I straightened slightly. "What happened to Irene? And Dante?"
Ria’s expression darkened, eyes flicking to . "That devil won’t be hurting anyone ever again," she said firmly. "And Irene... she’s stable. We ca from the ICU before coming here. They’ll transfer her back to her room once she passes the twenty-four-hour mark."
Thank God.
Relief washed over so hard I nearly sagged into the pillows.
As the others continued chatting, movent in the corner of my eye caught my attention. Vicky stepped out of the bathroom. Her face was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm soone puts on like armor. She walked straight to the kitchenette, tying her hair back as if nothing had happened just minutes earlier.
Then she turned around with a tray in her hands, her expression transforming into pure command.
"Alright, everybody out!" she announced, marching toward us like a tiny drill sergeant. "Your boss hasn’t eaten yet, and he needs food in his stomach before taking any dicine. So—out! Move. Move. Move."
The room went silent.
My n... froze.
Literally froze.
I’d never seen them stunned into stillness like that. It took Ria and Heidi herding them out, like two shepherds chasing a flock of confused, oversized sheep, to get them moving.
Rob looked back at once, eyes wide like he was silently asking, Is she always this scary?
I shrugged and nodded toward the door.
He bolted.
Within seconds, the room emptied, the door shut, and the sudden quiet settled over us.
Just the two of us again.
Just ... and Vicky.
She placed the tray gently on the table beside , her expression finally softening, but the weight of the mont earlier still hung in the air, unspoken, unfinished, unbearably loud.
I wasn’t sure I wanted her to run away from that conversation again.
Vicky pushed the overbed table closer, her movents gentle, so different from the fierce commander she had been monts before. She lifted the lid of the porridge, and the rich aroma filled the room again. Chicken. Beef. Ginger. Sothing warm and comforting I hadn’t realized I’d been craving.
"Alright," she said quietly, sitting beside . "Let’s get you fed."
I blinked.
Fed?
"Hold on," I said, frowning as she scooped a spoonful of porridge. "You’re... you’re not actually planning to feed , right?"
She raised one brow. "Do you see anyone else here? Yes, Oliver. I’m feeding you."
"I’m a grown man," I argued, indignation instantly flooding my chest. "I can eat by my—"
I reached for the spoon.
My shoulder burned like fire ripping through muscle.
"F—!" I hissed through clenched teeth, instinctively clutching my right side.
Vicky clicked her tongue, her expression snapping into annoyance so fast it was almost codic. "Look at you. Acting all macho when you literally can’t even lift your arm without making that dying-cow noise."
"It was not a dying cow noise," I muttered, still wincing.
"It was," she corrected sharply. "Now stop being stubborn."
Before I could protest again, she lifted the spoon to my lips.
I glared at it.
I glared at her.
She glared back twice as hard.
"Oliver," she said with the authority of soone who had commanded my entire security team three minutes ago, "open your mouth."
"No."
Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Oliver Morris, if you don’t stop this nonsense right now, I swear I will use this spoon to—"
"Alright! Fine!" I opened my mouth, defeated. "Just don’t finish that sentence."
She huffed triumphantly and fed the first spoonful.
Warm. Savory. Comforting.
God, it tasted good.
Maybe it was the porridge. Maybe it was her.
Maybe it was the fact that she was here, after everything, taking care of when she absolutely didn’t have to.
I swallowed, slower this ti, not because the food was hot, but because there was a sudden tightness in my throat.
Vicky’s face softened instantly when she saw finally obeying. The tension faded from her shoulders, her features lting from irritation into sothing almost... tender.
"There," she whispered, scooping another spoonful. "See? That wasn’t so hard."
Her voice was gentle.
It did sothing to my ribcage, sothing painful and warm at the sa ti.
She fed again. And again.
And with each bite, her expression softened more, her eyes tracing my face as if she needed the reassurance that I was real, alive, breathing in front of her.
"I was so scared," she murmured without looking directly at , her fingers brushing my cheek by accident before she pulled them back quickly. "When Nora saw on on TV and said you were shot... I thought..." Her voice cracked, but she forced herself to swallow it down. "Just eat, okay?"
My chest tightened.
My heart clenched.
I wanted to take her hand. I wanted to pull her close, even if it made my stitches scream. I wanted to tell her to stop pretending she didn’t care as deeply as I saw in her eyes.
But instead... I opened my mouth for the next spoonful.
No more arguing.
No more pride.
No more distance.
Just her... taking care of .
And —letting her.
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