Love through wheels

Trying to cope

What are you doing in my room?

James snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through the air.

Juliet stiffened but didn’t turn immediately. “Good afternoon, sir… I was cleaning your room.”

“Cleaning?” His wheels creaked against the floor as he pushed himself forward, eyes narrowing.

“And the photo frames?”

Juliet hesitated—just a second too long. “Yes… sir.”

“Why?” The single word came out colder this time.

“I—I cleaned them because they were dusty. I thought… the pictures should look—”

“Radiant?” James cut in, a bitter edge curling his lips. “Who asked you to touch them?”

Silence stretched.

Juliet swallowed. “No one, sir. I just—”

“And my journal?” His voice dropped dangerously low.

Before she could react, he snatched it from her hands, gripping it tightly like something fragile… or something forbidden.

“Don’t touch what you don’t understand,” he said, each word deliberate. “Respect my boundaries.”

Juliet’s brows furrowed, but she didn’t back down this time. “You’re hiding something.”

James froze.

Her gaze flicked to the journal. “I saw a date. What happens on that day?”

For a moment, nothing—just the ticking of the clock and the tension pressing in from all sides.

Then, reluctantly—“It’s my birthday.”

Juliet blinked, surprised. “Oh… wow.”

Her eyes drifted around the room, trying to ease the sudden heaviness. “You must really love books. They’re everywhere.”

James let out a dry, humorless laugh. “I do. But do you know the most annoying book I’ve ever read?”

Juliet shook her head slowly. “No… you haven’t told me.”

“The most annoying book I’ve ever read,” he said, his voice tightening, “is The Monitress.”

Juliet’s expression changed. “The Monitress? I read that years ago. It’s actually very—”

“Interesting?” he snapped, eyes flashing. “Of course you’d think so.”

The air shifted—sharp, hostile.

“I guess you think just like the writer,” he added, his tone laced with accusation.

Juliet straightened, irritation rising. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Get out.” His voice was low now, but far more dangerous. “Get out of my room.”

She didn’t move.

“I said get out!” he roared, slamming his hand against the armrest.

Juliet flinched—but only slightly. Her jaw tightened.

“If you want me out,” she said, her voice trembling with restrained anger, “then you don’t need to shout.”

James said nothing.

“I hate noise,” she continued, her eyes locking onto his. “I hate being shouted at.”

The silence that followed was heavier than the shouting.

“Just because I’m your caregiver,” she added quietly, “doesn’t mean I’m beneath respect.”

For a second, something flickered in James’ expression—guilt… or something deeper—but it vanished as quickly as it came.

Juliet turned sharply and walked out.

The door slammed.

The sound echoed longer than it should have.

And in the sudden silence, James’ grip on the journal tightened—his knuckles whitening—as his gaze drifted, unwillingly, to the freshly cleaned photo frames.