Chapter 69
1214 Words
CHAPTER 69
ANGELA
I knew something was wrong the moment Damian didn't answer my first call.
He always answered.
Sometimes on the first ring. Sometimes after letting it ring twice just to annoy me.
This time, nothing.
I called again.
Still nothing.
I stared at my phone for a few seconds before calling his secretary.
“Where is Damian?”
There was a brief silence.
“Mr. Damian is at home.”
“Is he working?”
“No.”
That answer made me sit up.
“Is he sick?”
Another pause.
“Yes. He has a fever.”
I was already reaching for my bag.
“I'll come over.”
---
When I arrived, I found Damian exactly where I expected him to be.
In bed.
Looking irritated.
“You look terrible,” I said.
His eyes opened slowly.
“Good morning to you too.”
“It isn't morning.”
He glanced toward the curtains.
“I don't care.”
I put my bag down.
“How high is your fever?”
“I don't know.”
“You didn't check?”
“I know I'm sick.”
“That isn't an answer.”
He looked at me.
“You came all the way here to interrogate me?”
“I came to make sure you don't die because you refused to take care of yourself.”
One corner of his mouth lifted.
“So you were worried.”
“I didn't say that.”
“You came.”
“You're sick.”
“You came because you're worried.”
I ignored him and walked toward the bathroom.
“Where's the thermometer?”
“In the cabinet.”
I found it, checked his temperature, and stared at the reading.
“You have a fever.”
“I told you that.”
“You also have a very annoying personality.”
“I've been told.”
I handed him the thermometer.
“Take your medicine.”
He looked at the tablets in my hand.
“I don't like them.”
“I didn't ask.”
He actually laughed.
It was quiet and tired, but it made me look at him.
“You're enjoying this.”
“A little.”
I shook my head.
“Take it.”
He did.
Afterward, I pulled the curtains open slightly and opened a window.
“You need air.”
“I need sleep.”
“You can sleep after eating.”
He frowned.
“I don't want food.”
“You're eating.”
“Angela.”
“Damian.”
He stared at me.
I stared back.
He sighed.
“You're stubborn.”
“So are you.”
---
I decided to cook.
That was my first mistake.
The kitchen looked simple enough.
It wasn't.
I stood in front of the counter staring at the ingredients I'd found.
“How difficult can this be?”
Apparently, very.
I had seen people cook countless times.
That didn't mean I knew how to do it.
Twenty minutes later, I was staring at a pot that looked suspiciously wrong.
Damian appeared at the kitchen entrance.
“You're cooking?”
“Yes.”
He looked into the pot.
Then at me.
Then back at the pot.
“What is that?”
“Food.”
“That doesn't answer my question.”
I gave him a look.
“You're supposed to be in bed.”
“I smelled something burning.”
“Nothing is burning.”
A thin line of smoke drifted behind me.
Damian raised an eyebrow.
I turned around quickly.
“Oh.”
He laughed.
“You don't know how to cook.”
“I didn't say I did.”
“Then why are you trying?”
“Because you're sick.”
He went quiet.
I turned down the heat.
“You're going back to bed.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
I rolled my eyes.
Eventually, I managed to make something edible.
Barely.
Damian ate it without complaining.
I watched him carefully.
“How is it?”
He swallowed.
“Interesting.”
“That bad?”
“I didn't say that.”
“You didn't have to.”
He smiled.
“It's fine.”
“Don't lie.”
“I've eaten worse.”
I shook my head.
“Just finish it.”
He did.
And somehow, that made the entire embarrassing cooking attempt worth it.
---
By evening, Damian looked better.
His fever had gone down, and he had managed to eat properly.
I collected my bag.
“I'll leave now.”
He looked up from his phone.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“You're leaving?”
“I have work tomorrow.”
“You can stay.”
“I should go home.”
He put his phone down.
“Angela.”
I stopped.
He studied me for a moment.
“You came here this morning.”
“Yes.”
“You stayed all day.”
“Yes.”
“You cooked for me.”
“I wouldn't call it cooking.”
His mouth twitched.
“Whatever you call it, you stayed.”
I said nothing.
“And now you're leaving the moment I'm better.”
“I have to go.”
“Why?”
I looked at him.
“Because I should.”
“That isn't a reason.”
“It is to me.”
He stood and walked closer.
Not too close.
Just enough for me to know he wanted an answer.
“Do you always have to leave?”
I looked away for a second.
“I don't know.”
His expression changed slightly.
“You don't know?”
“I just do.”
He was quiet.
I expected him to argue.
He didn't.
Instead, he asked, “Is it because of me?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
“I don't know.”
He studied my face.
I knew he was trying to understand me.
He always did that.
“You know you don't have to run away from me, right?”
“I know.”
“Then stay.”
I looked at him.
“I came because you were sick.”
“I know.”
“You're better now.”
“That doesn't mean I want you to leave.”
His voice wasn't demanding.
That made it harder.
I tightened my grip on my bag.
“Damian…”
“I’m not asking you for anything.”
He paused.
“I just don't understand why leaving is always easier for you than staying.”
I had no answer.
Not one I could give him.
So I remained silent.
He stepped closer.
“You don't have to explain it tonight.”
I looked into his eyes.
“But don't make me feel like I'm asking for too much when all I want is a little more time with you.”
My fingers loosened around the strap of my bag.
For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I quietly placed the bag back on the chair.
Damian looked at it.
Then at me.
He didn't smile.
He didn't celebrate.
He simply said,
“Thank you.”
I nodded.
“Don't get used to it.”
His lips curved.
“Too late.”
And for the first time that evening, I smiled.
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