There was a knock at the door.
Soft. But insistent.
I wasn’t expecting anyone. Which should’ve been a red flag.
So naturally, I opened the door without thinking.
And there she was.
Wrapped in an oversized hoodie that did nothing to hide the fact that it was probably mine, cheeks flushed, lips pale, eyes glassy.
Celestia Moreau. The billionaire’s brat. My... girlfriend?
She looked like death.
"Uh," I said, stepping back, "what—?"
"I think I’m dying," she croaked dramatically, stepping inside without waiting for permission.
"You’re sick," I corrected, shutting the door behind her. "You should be in a hospital."
She collapsed on my couch, pulled the hoodie tighter around her. "I hate hospitals."
"Then call your family doctor. Don’t tell you don’t have one."
"I don’t," she mumbled, eyes fluttering closed.
"Bullsh—"
She coughed. Violently.
And smiled through it like she’d just won a chess match.
"Fine," I muttered. "Stay. But only until you feel better. And don’t puke on anything."
She gave a thumbs up and laid down like she owned the place.
I should’ve said no. Should’ve kicked her out and called soone, anyone.
But I didn’t.
Because I’m a nice guy.
A stupid, weak-spined, utterly-screwed nice guy.
---
Turns out taking care of a sick Celestia was harder than surviving her healthy version.
She didn’t do vulnerable. She weaponized it.
She kept making little sounds — whines, soft sighs — every ti I gave her dicine or handed her a glass of water.
"You’re really good at this," she murmured from under the blanket, eyes fluttering open just enough to make contact. "Like... boyfriend material."
"You have a fever," I deadpanned.
"I know." She smiled. "It’s your fault. You infected ... with feelings."
I dropped the thermoter.
She laughed. Coughed. Winced. And then curled up tighter on my couch.
"You need rest."
> "You need to stop pretending you’re not in love with ."
"Celestia—"
She patted the space beside her.
"No."
"I feel cold," she whispered.
"I’ll get another blanket."
She pouted. "You’re so an to sick people."
I sighed then sat down beside her.
She instantly latched onto my arm like a koala with abandonnt issues.
"Celestia."
> "Shh. Sick people don’t listen to logic."
---
It got worse.
Around midnight, she sat up and declared she wasn’t going ho.
"What do you an not going ho?"
> "No one’s gonna notice I’m gone. I sleep in one of the guest wings. The staff assus I travel. Perks of being the favorite daughter of a billionaire."
"That’s not normal."
She sneezed.
I sighed again — probably for the fiftieth ti that night.
"You’re sleeping on the couch," I said.
She raised an eyebrow. "You an our couch?"
"No. The couch."
> "Your bed’s small. But I’m smaller."
She wasn’t wrong but she was dangerous and insane.
And possibly running a high fever.
Yet sohow, that made her even more terrifying.
---
She fell asleep beside .
I gave in.
She curled into like I was a pillow with a pulse. Arms wrapped around my chest, her leg thrown over mine. And yeah — I didn’t sleep much. Or at all.
She was warm. And soft. And slled like vanilla and rebellion.
And I was a guy.
A terrified, half-hard, emotionally-conflicted guy with a death wish.
Because even though I was trying to stay still, trying not to breathe too loud or shift too close — she kept moving in her sleep. Kept tightening her hold. Kept nuzzling into my chest like she belonged there.
And worse?
That look she gave earlier — right before she dozed off.
It wasn’t smug orr playful orr teasing, it was soft, open... Real.
Like she was actually falling for .
And that was worse than all the seductive smirks and wild glances before.
Because I think...
I might’ve liked it.
And that scared more than anything else.
Reviews
All reviews (0)