I pulled away from the peephole and unlocked the door, taking the tray from the staff member with a quick thanks and a tip before nudging the door shut with my foot.
The soft click echoed a little too loudly in the room.
I set the tray carefully on the table, focusing on the small, mundane task. Anything to steady myself. But just as I reached for the lid, the sound of the bathroom door opening catching my attention.
I froze.
Marcus stepped out like it was the most natural thing in the world, a towel slung low around his waist, his skin still damp. Steam curled behind him, clinging to the doorway like he had just walked out of some ancient bathhouse.
For a second, I forgot how to breathe.
Though he didn't seem to notice. He just moved toward me with that same quiet certainty, water still trailing down the line of his neck, across his shoulders.
And suddenly, the room felt too small. Too warm.
I stayed where I was, rooted to the spot, my fingers still hovering over the tray. This...this was exactly why sharing a bed had been a terrible idea. Hell, being in the same room itself was a really, terrible idea.
Marcus stopped just short of me, close enough that I could feel the lingering heat from his skin. And I couldn't look anywhere else.
"Elena," he said, his Adam's apple bobbing as he spoke my name.
"You are blocking my path."
The words snapped me out of it.
I shook my head quickly. "Right," I stammered. "Sorry—I was just...getting our dinner ready. It's...um, ready."
I stepped aside, giving him space, though it felt like the room only grew smaller as he passed by me.
The corner of his lips quirked slightly, a faint dimple appearing as he moved toward his duffel bag. He crouched, rummaging through it before pulling out the clothes Uncle Alan had gotten for him.
Then he paused.
His brows drew together.
"I must admit," he said, glancing back at me, "I do not know what is considered proper attire for sleep in this time."
A breath of something that almost sounded like a laugh slipped past my lips.
"Right," I muttered, pushing myself away from the table. "Of course you don't."
I walked over to him, my shoulder brushing lightly against his as I reached into his open bag. The contact was brief, but the feel of it lingered.
"For sleeping," I said, keeping my voice steady, "you don't need all this."
I picked out a soft cotton shirt, then a pair of loose shorts, holding them up for him to see. "This is usually enough."
He watched me closely. Not the clothes, but me.
My fingers faltered slightly before I handed them over. "You'll be more comfortable in these," I added, quieter now.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then his hand closed around the fabric, brushing against mine.
Not by accident this time. I could feel it. And I knew he did, too.
"In truth," he said, voice low, almost thoughtful, "what I would find most comfortable is far simpler."
I swallowed. "Oh?"
"A simple tunic," he said. "Light. Unbound. That is what we wore in our private quarters, when there was no need for armor or display."
My lips parted slightly.
"No excess," he added, his gaze steady on mine. "No constraints."
His eyes flicked briefly to the clothes in his hands before returning to me.
"This," he said quietly, lifting them just a fraction, "feels...excessive."
A small, breathless laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
"Trust me," I said, my voice softer than I intended, "you'll want the 'elaborate' option tonight."
His lips curved faintly. "As you command, Elena."
The way he said it sounded far less like a joke than it should have.
"I should change your bandage first," I muttered, deliberately avoiding the weight of his gaze. "Then you can get dressed, and we'll eat."
He inclined his head slightly.
"Never have I been so accustomed to taking instruction from a woman," he murmured, almost to himself. "Least of all one who ie neither my wife...nor bound to me in any way."
The words made something in me stiffen. But I ignored it.
"Sit," I said, a little sharper than I intended, pulling the chair out from the desk.
He obeyed without protest, lowering himself into the seat.
I forced my focus elsewhere. On the first-aid kit in my bag, the familiar motions of unzipping it, of laying everything out with practiced precision.
Anything but him.
"Hold still," I said quietly, stepping closer.
The towel sat low on his hips, and I kept my eyes firmly on his ribs as I reached for the edge of the bandage. Carefully, I peeled it back.
He didn't flinch. Didn't even so much as draw in a breath.
The wound beneath had already begun to close. Angry, red still, but cleaner than before. The swelling had gone done, the edges knitting together in a way that made my brows draw slightly.
"You heal quickly," I murmured, more to myself than to him.
"A necessity," he replied. "A man in my position does not have the luxury of healing slowly."
I swallowed, reaching for the fresh gauze.
My fingers brushing against his skin as I worked. Light, clinical touches that somehow felt anything but. His skin was warm beneath my hands, solid and unmoving. Too aware.
I pressed the clean bandage into place, smoothing it down carefully.
"This should hold for now," I said, my voice quieter than before. "Just...try not to tear it open again."
A faint breath left him. Almost a huff, almost something else.
"I shall endeavor to remain uninjured," he said.
I huffed softly despite myself. "Please do."
But when I finally let my hands fall away, I realized just how close I still was.
"You had never questioned me," he said.
I frowned. "What do you mean?"
"You never asked," he continued, lowering himself slightly, his fingers coming up to tilt my chin until I was forced to meet his gaze, "whether I intend to remain in your world...or return to my own."
My breath caught.
"Because it doesn't matter," I said, pulling back just enough to put some space between us even when it didn't feel like nearly enough. "Whether you stay or not. That's your decision."
His eyes didn't leave mine.
"You're my patient," I added, forcing steadiness into my voice as I picked up the trash, tossing it to the bin. "At the end of the day, that's all this is."
He remained silent, while I focused on the mundane task of placing everything back together. Then putting the first-aid kit back into my duffel bag.
"I do not believe you," he said.
The words were quiet, but they landed harder than anything he had said before.
"If I were merely your patient," he went on, his voice lowering, "you would not have sheltered me. You would not have fled with me, tended to me, placed yourself in danger for my sake."
My chest tightened.
"You would not look at me the way you do now."
I couldn't find a response.
I didn't trust myself to.
But just as I turned, he was there. Standing impossibly close, towering over me. His bare skin was only partially hidden by the bandage wrapped around his ribs and the towel hanging low on his hips. His eyes locked onto mine, dark and unwavering, as if silently daring me to resist.
The air between us crackled with a charged silence, a moment suspended in time.
I wanted to speak, to deny what my heart screamed, my lips parting helplessly.
Before I could say a word, he closed the distance. His hands firm, yet gentle, pulling me into him. His mouth crashing against mine in a searing kiss. Raw, urgent, filled with everything we had left unspoken.
In that moment, I surrendered, lost in the fierce intensity of us.