Hailey's POV
The penthouse was too quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet—this was the heavy, expensive kind that came from too much glass and insulation, where sound had nowhere to hide and every breath felt like an intrusion. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and sandalwood, the ghost of the hospital clinging stubbornly to him.
He stood by the kitchen island, half dressed, trying—and failing—to button his shirt.
The movement was stiff, every breath drawing a faint wince he didn't bother to mask. I pretended not to notice, leaning against the opposite counter, pretending to read a text that didn't exist. My reflection in the chrome appliances looked back at me, unimpressed.
He cursed under his breath when the fabric tugged against his side.
"Language," I said, witho
