Silence lingered after his words — the kind that settles when everything true has already been said.
Kaelen didn't move for a long moment. Then, with a small exhale, he turned toward the phone by the bedside table."Room service," he said, voice even. "Something light, please. Congee, some fruit, and warm tea. No coffee."
I frowned faintly. "You didn't have to—"
"I did," he said simply. "You can't live off an IV drip."The firmness in his tone left no room for argument — yet beneath it was a gentleness that made refusal impossible.
He moved to the window while we waited, hands tucked into his pockets, gaze resting on the skyline. The rain had softened to a fine mist, city lights bleeding through the glass — blurred, luminous, almost unreal.
Without a word, he slipped off his coat and draped it neatly over the chair. Then he began to unbutton his cuffs, rolling the sleeves of his shirt with that same quiet precision he seemed to bring to everything.
For the first time, I saw him without the usual armor of a suit — just a white shirt, sleeves folded to his elbows, the fabric stretching lightly over his shoulders and chest.A lean kind of strength, controlled and understated. The kind that came from restraint, not display.
When the knock came, Kaelen crossed the room with measured ease.He opened the door, exchanged a few low words with the server, brought the tray in and set it down on the table — calm, deliberate, as though this quiet caretaking was something he'd done a thousand times before.
The aroma of ginger and fish congee and tea filled the air. He ladled some congee into the bowl and placed it before me, along with a spoon. "Eat while it's still warm."
"I'm fine," I murmured.
His gaze flicked to mine. "You're not. Just try a little. With the launch coming up, you can't afford to get sick now."
That simple truth — steady, unyielding — disarmed me. I took the spoon.
We didn't speak for a while. I ate slowly, the warmth spreading through me in small, careful waves. Kaelen stood nearby, watching the rain. His reflection in the glass looked composed, but I could sense the tension in his shoulders, the restraint in his silence.
When I finally set the spoon down, he spoke — softly, without turning. "Feeling better?"
My hand tightened around the bowl. "Yeah, thanks."
He nodded once, and continued watching the rain.
The quiet stretched. I wanted to fill it, to say somthing, but the words wouldn't come. Not when his calm only made my chaos louder.
"Kaelen," I said finally, my voice low. "You... you shouldn't be here."
He turned then, and the way he looked at me made my throat tighten. "Why?"
"Because…" I stopped, searching for the right lie. "Because this isn't—"
"Right?" he offered.
I let out a soft, broken laugh. "That's one way to put it."
Something flickered in his eyes — not amusement, not reproach. Just quiet understanding.He stepped closer, careful, the way you might approach a wounded animal that still had claws.
"Elara," he said, his voice gentler now. "You don't have to explain yourself."
"I do," I whispered. "Because if I don't, I might start to believe this is okay. And it's not."
He didn't speak. The silence itself felt like an answer — one that understood too much.
I swallowed hard. "Kaelen, I… I can't do this."
His gaze held mine — steady, patient, unreadable. "Do what?"
"Let you care," I said, barely more than a breath. "You shouldn't. Not about me. Not like this."
For a heartbeat, something broke through his composure — a flash of something raw, something he quickly locked away again.
He exhaled, slow and quiet. "Then don't," he said softly. "Don't let me. Just eat. Rest. Forget this conversation. Forget I was here."
It should've been cold. But it wasn't.
I nodded, but my throat ached. "You make it sound easy."
He gave a faint, humorless smile. "Nothing about you has ever been easy."
The line hung between us — too intimate, too dangerous. Neither of us moved to take it back.
Outside, the rain began again — soft, persistent. He turned toward the window, and I let my gaze fall to the IV line, the slow drip steady as a heartbeat.
Somewhere between one breath and the next, I realized —for the first time in a long while —I didn't feel entirely alone.
Kaelen glanced at the clock, then back at me."You need to rest," he said quietly.
"I'm fine," I murmured, though the heaviness in my limbs betrayed me.
He shook his head. "You say that every time you're about to collapse."
The faintest smile tugged at my lips. "And yet, I'm still standing."
"Barely."His tone softened. "Let me at least make sure you're not working tonight. You should let Charles know you'll be staying here. I'll tell the hotel to extend the room."
That caught me off guard — not the practicality of it, but the thoughtfulness.He'd already considered the details I hadn't.
"Right," I said, fumbling for my phone. I sent my father a quick message — Daddy, I'm staying at the V Hotel tonight. See you at the office tomorrow. — then set it aside.
I settled back against the pillows, exhaustion tugging at the edges of my thoughts. "You really think I'll be able to sleep after all that sleep I had just now?"
He looked over his shoulder, one brow slightly raised. "Then talk. About anything. Just not work."
So we did.
About nothing and everything.The weather. The launch. The city lights that blurred into watercolour streaks against the glass. He told me about a restaurant that served the best tea in Old District, and I laughed softly when he admitted he hated the taste of champagne but drank it anyway at every gala because "it looked appropriate."
Somewhere between the laughter and the quiet, my eyelids began to grow heavy.
"Kaelen," I said, half-asleep.
He looked up from where he sat on the armchair. "Hm?"
"I… forgot what I was going to say."
His mouth curved, just slightly. "Then it probably wasn't important."
"It felt like it was."
He didn't answer. Just stood, crossed the short distance to the bed, and adjusted the blanket over me — careful, almost reverent.
"Sleep, Elara," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're safe here."
I wanted to ask him what that meant — safe from what, or from whom — but sleep was faster than words.
When I woke, the light was different.Softer. Gold edging through the curtains, brushing the room in quiet stillness.
The armchair by the window was empty. His coat was gone.
On the bedside table sat a refilled glass of water — beads of condensation catching the morning light.
I smiled before I realized I was smiling.
It reminded me of the bottle of water I gave the younger Kaelen, at Lake Estermont.
The city beyond the glass was already awake, alive. But for one fragile heartbeat, I stayed still — holding on to the silence he left behind.
The warmth of it.The impossibility of it.
Then I reached for the glass, took a slow sip, and let the scene blur softly at the edges — like the end of a dream I wasn't quite ready to wake from.