The first month in the hospital blurs into painkillers, check-ups, and cautious movement. My body adjusts—slowly—to what it lost… and what the kidney transplant gave back.
I asked questions he didn't answer. The days blend into each other, marked only by Mr. Silence's constant presence. He takes care of everything, revealing little information.
The doctor mentions my recovery is progressing well, though the kidney transplant requires careful monitoring to ensure my body doesn't reject it. Each day, I feel a bit stronger, but Mr. Silence becomes quieter, his presence more potent. He stares at me intently, silently urging me to finish the large glass of orange juice. I frown at him, growing weary of consuming so much juice.
"I'm fine without—" I begin but his stern expression silences my complaint. I gulp down the entire glass. He continues reading on his laptop, seated at the desk across from my bed. The room is large, spacious, and fully furnished. I didn't know hospitals had rooms like these. It feels more like a hotel suite.
I remain silent, despite having many questions, not wanting to interrupt his work. A knock at the door, and I suspect it's Jason who comes every day at this time. Mr. Silence walks to the door. My feet itch for the ground as I dip them down leaning on the edge of the bed, hoping to sneak out once he leaves. However, he turns to me with a stern expression.
"Don't move," he orders before leaving.
As I contemplate whether to sneak away or not, Jason enters the room, wearing his warm, kind smile. "How are you feeling?" he asks.
"I'm bored. The doctor said I'm fine to go home, so—"
"Please stay for another week, in case there are any complications."
"But I feel fine, and—"
"Please, Ace... if not for your sake, can you do it for our sake? For him?"
I blink in confusion. "I'm not going to sue him or anything like that. If you need me to sign—"
"You misunderstood, he's worried about you," Jason admits, causing my cheeks to flush and my heart to race. I nod, unable to do anything else.
"Thank you!" Jason leaves, seemingly relieved.
Hope creeps in unexpectedly, but I shake my head to dismiss it. No, he probably just feels guilty for what happened. I should just lie here, relax, and fully recover so he can stop worrying, and we can go our separate ways... A mischievous thought emerges: if I don't recover, will he stay with me? No, no, what's wrong with me? I scold myself and brush off the thought.
Mr. Silence gracefully returns to the room, settling back at his desk and resuming his work. I sigh, basking in the joy of his presence. I admire the handsome, focused expression on his face as he concentrates on his laptop screen. Upright with his back straight, shoulders relaxed, dressed shoes flat on the ground, his hands rest calmly on the desk. His head is held high, and his eyes are focused on the screen. His impeccable posture and refined sitting position are striking. The efficiency of his fingertips is evident in the rapid keystrokes that fill the room.
How can a man possess such elegance? I wonder, sheepishly appreciating him. I have seen women who effortlessly exude confidence and grace, their every movement elegant as they sit or enter a room. But never before have I encountered a man with such poise.
Without breaking his focus, he reaches for his glass of water, taking a sip in the most refined manner. He places the glass back on the table without a sound and immediately returns to typing, each movement a testament to his innate elegance. He briefly glances at his phone again. Five times now within the last hour.Who are you waiting for?
I deduce that he must have come from an affluent family, as his refined manners were likely instilled during his upbringing. I have never been the elegant type myself—I'm often too abrupt, blunt, and coarse in my movements. Recklessness seems to come naturally to me. I pout as I reflect on this.
Elegance was not part of my upbringing, and it was only recently that I began to recognize its beauty. Initially, I discovered elegance in languages—while composing songs, writing poems, and later, crafting programming code. Then, I saw it in the intricacies of mathematics. The fluidity of dance movements and the gracefulness of runway strides introduced me to the kinetic elegance present in physical movement. He exemplifies elegance in myriad ways—from his mannerisms, movements, and clothing style to his refined taste, eloquent speech, and the very essence of his presence.
Yet, when he is with me, he transforms. Something primal, untamed, and instinctual emerges. His eloquent speech gives way to authoritative, almost childlike demands. His movements become rough, impassioned, and unrestrained. I can't help but giggle as memories of our numerous intimate moments flood my mind.
My laughter catches his attention, his stern expression softening as his intense gaze meets mine. Involuntarily, I bite my lower lip, revealing just how much he affects me. I quickly avert my eyes, my cheeks flushing with warmth, hoping he hasn't noticed.
I love you so much it hurts. Why do you have this effect on me? I wonder as I look down, avoiding his gaze. But while you're physically here, your heart is elsewhere. I have to free you even if it hurts.
"What's wrong?" he asks, his voice tinged with concern.
I blink, startled by the worry etched across his face. When did he come toward me? His hand cradles my neck, his thumb gently lifting my chin to meet his gaze. His eyes search mine intently, making my pulse quicken at the proximity of his face. The familiar scent of his cologne, which had calmed me during my recovery, now incites wild thoughts.
"I-I'm fine," I stammer nervously, my emotions threatening to spill over.
Letting go of me, he presses the button on the bed controller, and the bed reclines into a flat position. Carefully, he pulls the covers over me.
"Go to sleep," he instructs nonchalantly.
"Sleep, sleep. That's all I've done for the past month. Can't we go for a walk or something? I'm like a plant; I need sunlight!" I plead, gripping his hand.
A smile graces his lips. He gives my hand a reassuring squeeze. "Stay put," he says, and I pout as I watch him leave the room.
He comes back in with a wheelchair, carries me from the bed and firmly places me in it, and wheels me out of the room.
"I said walk, not be wheeled." I pout up at him.
He turns us around and moves to go back inside.
"No, no, I'm sorry! Being wheeled is fine!" I beg, and he changes direction back toward the garden.
We bask in the sunlight on the rooftop, surrounded by the lush green of rows of potted plants of varying heights, and I sigh in relief and contentment. But he's staring at his phone, waiting.
Wanting to tear him from it, I ask, "If my parents think I'm away on a school trip, then... where should I say I've been?"
"Where do you think we are?" he asks.
My eyes widen as I frantically scan our surroundings, examining buildings and anything else in view for geographical hints. Tall surrounding buildings block definitive landmarks.
"We're not, we're in LA, right?" I ask uncertainly.
He narrows his eyes at me and slowly smiles mischievously. I swallow nervously. He's dangerously handsome when he smirks.
"Where are we?!" I yell nervously as he casually wheels me back inside. Silence.
But as soon as I'm in his arms, I know I'm safe. He scoops me out of the wheelchair and walks toward the bed. My fingers trail through the back of his head, combing his thick hair, while I nuzzle my nose against his neck, breathing him in.
I take his unresponsive expression as permission to touch him, considering he's the one holding me.
My nose burrows deeper into the racing pulse at his neck. That's when I notice he's stopped the wheelchair by the doorway, carrying me the longer distance to the bed.
"I want my phone," I murmur softly, tugging playfully on his tie as he eases me back onto the bed.
"It's broken."
"Get me a new one," I half-demand, half-whine, puckering my lips toward him. I want to kiss him, but I need him to kiss me.
His eyes travel the length of my face, pausing momentarily on my ready lips. He swallows, then turns away.
"When you leave," he replies, starting to walk back to his desk. But then he stops.
I bite my lip, stifling a laugh as I slide his phone under my back. He pats his pants pockets, then his suit jacket, searching for his phone, then rotates toward me. I blink innocently at him. He strides toward me, rage simmering in his eyes, and pins my arms down.
"Where is it?" he demands furiously.
Unable to contain the thrill coursing through me, my heart starts pounding as I put my face inches from his daring him.
Puckering my mouth at him, I say, "I don't know—"
He climbs onto the bed, his commanding form hovering over mine, close enough to steal the air from my lungs. A shiver slips down my spine, my breath unsteady, thick with anticipation. He lowers—just slightly. Heat follows. The rich, spiced warmth of amber curls around me, deep and intoxicating, laced with something darker—something unmistakably him. It fills my senses, settles beneath my skin. "Where is it?" His eyes turn icy.