Richard looked at her, his hand falling to his side as his eyes was tracing every feature of her face like he was seeing it for the first time. The longer he stared, the heavier his chest felt. There was something about her gaze that unraveled him—quietly, completely.

And now, locked in her eyes, he realized something terrifying.

He didn't want to look away.

He couldn't.

God, her eyes held so much. When she was happy—like when they danced—her smile and the light in her gaze had made time feel sacred, suspended. He'd wanted to freeze the moment, stay there forever, swallowed in her joy.

But now, as she looked at him with fear etched on her face, concern softening her features, and her voice trembling—he hated it. He hated that she was scared. Hated that her joy had vanished. He wanted her to be selfish with her happiness, not offer it to someone like him.

Why did her eyes do this to him?

Why did her touch quiet the pain?

The questions piled on and clouded his mind so fully that he didn't even notice at first—the searing pain in his chest was gone.

He barely reacted when she looked away. She turned suddenly, gaze breaking from his like she'd just remembered something, then hurried into the bathroom. As soon as she disappeared behind the door, the room felt colder.

The absence of her was a sharp contrast.

A few moments later, she emerged again, a damp towel in hand. She rushed to his side and pressed it to his forehead with gentle urgency.

Her hand touched him again.

And again... nothing happened.

He still felt her warmth, still felt the care she poured into something so simple. But she didn't flinch. Didn't wince. Didn't weaken.

"Sir, this should help bring your temperature down," she said softly, brushing his hair away from his face to better position the towel. "Please just try and rest."

He didn't have the strength to argue. His eyes slipped closed. The heaviness in his limbs returned, but this time it wasn't pain. It was fatigue, softened by her presence.

She took off his shoes, covered him with the blanket, and sat quietly on the floor beside the bed.

Still watching him.

Still there.

Even as the weight of sleep pulled at his body, Richard could feel her presence—steady, concerned. He couldn't remember the last time someone had stayed.

Maya didn't know what else to do. She had tried everything she could think of. Her eyes never left him, as if she were willing him to stay safe through sheer force of hope.

Her heart was tight. She couldn't shake the image of him in pain, hunched over and trembling like his body was being crushed from the inside. That wasn't a fever. That wasn't something small. But he didn't want help. He had pushed her away with the same coldness he always used—but it hadn't stopped her from caring.

She didn't know what she was supposed to do for him. She wasn't a doctor. She wasn't anything, really. Just a secretary who was supposed to follow rules and schedules—not someone who knew how to handle a man collapsing on his bed with the weight of the world in his chest.

But the way he looked at her—when he let his guard down—she saw something under it all.

Something hurting.

Something unbearably human.

Her eyes drifted to his face. His breathing had evened out. He looked... peaceful, almost. Younger. Less like the intimidating man who walked the halls like the world belonged to him, and more like someone who had been alone too long.

She noticed the faint lines in his forehead. The way his lips were set even in sleep, like he was bracing for something.

Her chest ached.

She couldn't stop thinking about him. Couldn't stop feeling the need to help. To stay.

Eventually, she laid her head on the edge of the bed, still watching him. Sleep took her quietly, her last thought a simple one:

Please let him be okay.

Night fell.

The city lights glowed softly outside the hotel window. Inside the room, a quiet stillness settled.

Richard stirred.

His eyes opened slowly. At first, he thought it was morning—but the room was dark, save for the muted shine of moonlight. He sat up, waiting for the ache to return.

It didn't.

His body felt... light. Not drained. Not scorched. Just calm.

That wasn't right.

His gaze shifted, and there she was—curled up on the floor beside the bed, wrapped in the blanket she'd meant for him. Her head rested near his arm.

She had stayed. All this time.

He stared at her, stunned.

His hand moved on instinct. He reached out, about to brush a strand of hair from her face—but stopped just short. His fingers trembled.

He couldn't risk it. He couldn't forget what he was. He had seen the danger before.

She wasn't supposed to be this close.

And yet...

He moved the blanket gently, tucking it around her shoulders with careful hands. She shifted slightly from the touch, eyes fluttering open.

Her gaze met his immediately.

"Sir?" Her voice was groggy, but her concern overrode it instantly. She sat up and pressed her hand to his forehead, searching his face for signs of distress. "You're not burning up anymore," she whispered. "Thank the heavens..."

Richard didn't move.

She smiled—soft, tired, sincere.

He stared at her. That feeling was back again. A yearning. A warmth that wrapped itself around his ribs like vines, pressing into places he didn't know could still feel.

And with it came a wave of confusion.

He frowned, expression tightening. That yearning—what was it for? Her? Her touch? Her care?

Why did it feel like something he'd never had before?

Maya saw his reaction and immediately pulled her hand away, eyes wide.

"I—I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to overstep. I just... I was worried and I wanted to check your temperature."

He turned his gaze away.

"...Thank you, Maya," he said finally, voice clipped but not cold. "But I'd appreciate it if you didn't speak of this incident to anyone. You've read your contract. You understand the consequences."

Her face dropped.

"Yes, sir."

He stood, adjusting the collar of his shirt, his eyes unreadable again. "Do not speak about this to anyone like I said, I take my personal matters very seriously."

Maya rose from the floor, her voice barely above a whisper. "I understand."

She felt small, she'd broken every rule, again.

But just as she turned to leave, she heard him speak again.

"Maya."

She looked back. His eyes found hers.

"...Thank you."

This time, the words were softer. Warmer.

She smiled—relieved, a little surprised—and nodded, the weight in her chest easing slightly.

They stood in silence her smile not fading, his eyes not stuck on her, bathed in the quiet silver of the moonlight and the hush of a city that didn't know two strangers were slowly beginning to feel something impossible.

And Richard—Richard let himself feel it.