All I need is you

Chapter 3

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**Mr. Wells — POV

The car glided through the city streets, black and silent, like a predator moving through prey. Kelly sat beside me, her posture rigid, arms crossed over her chest, eyes darting out the window, pretending I was not the reason her heart was racing.

I did not speak. Words are unnecessary when presence alone commands. Silence is sharper than any blade.

Yet she fidgeted. Adjusted her hoodie. Tugged at the cuff of her sleeve. Small movements, but they betrayed everything—discomfort, embarrassment, irritation, defiance.

I studied her. Every line of tension, every twitch of muscle. People rarely carry themselves like this. Most crumble under the weight of my world. She does not.

And that… unsettles me.

“You realize you’re dehydrated,” I said finally, my voice even, smooth, controlled.

“I know,” she snapped. Not loud, but sharp enough to slice through the quiet of the car. “I don’t need a doctor. I don’t need anyone.”

Her defiance would be amusing if I allowed it. But I do not allow amusement. Not when she is involved.

“You do.” My tone was absolute. No room for negotiation. She met my gaze briefly, eyes flashing, but looked away. She knows I am not a man who negotiates.

We drove in silence, the only sound the hum of the engine. The city lights passed like fleeting ghosts, illuminating her features in fleeting streaks of gold and shadow.

I do not notice beauty in most people. It is irrelevant. Power, influence, survival—those are the currencies I understand. But she… her presence is a disturbance I cannot ignore.

I have trained my mind to ignore distractions. I have trained my heart to be nothing.

Yet she presses on both.

The clinic came into view—a sterile, white box in a city of chaos. She stiffened further.

“I don’t need this,” she whispered, almost to herself.

“You will take it,” I said. Flat. Firm. Dangerous. She wanted to argue, but I didn’t give her the opportunity.

The moment we stepped inside, she seemed to shrink—not from fear of the place, but from… me. She looked at the stark walls, the smell of antiseptic, the quiet efficiency of the nurses moving around. And she knew. She knew she was out of control here.

I do not like vulnerability. I do not like weakness. And yet, I am fascinated by it—when it is hers.

The nurse approached. “Can I help you?”

“Yes.” My voice left no room for interpretation. “Patient. She is dehydrated and needs immediate attention.”

Kelly flinched at my words, at the control in my tone. I noticed everything. Her pulse quickened. Her jaw tensed. She wanted to snap, to defy. She wanted to remind me that she is not a child to be shepherded.

But she is mine to protect, whether she wants it or not.

And I hate that.

She is stubborn. She is reckless. She is fire in a world built of steel.

And the fire is beginning to seep into cracks I thought were sealed forever.

I remained silent as the nurse led her away, following at a measured distance, eyes never leaving her. Her movements were precise, defensive, attempting to shield herself from the inevitable invasion of privacy, the examination, the reality of her frailty.

She did not speak. I did not need her to.

Because I am already thinking ahead—her safety, her defiance, the way she moves through my world unbroken.

And I am terrified.

Terrified that the very rules I’ve built my life upon—the control, the fear, the cold calculation—cannot contain her.

And terrified that I… care.

I do not care. I do not falter. I do not feel.

Yet, as I watch her from across the room, her spine straight even under the weight of illness, her eyes darting like a hawk even in discomfort, I realize… she has already begun to breach my walls.

The cold man who rules with steel and silence has never faced this.

She is the first.

And the thought both terrifies and excites me.

____

The nurse led her into a small examination room, the kind with pale walls and cheap blinds that tremble whenever the door shuts. Kelly walked ahead, her shoulders tight, chin lifted—defiant even in weakness.

I followed.

I always follow what I intend to control.

But she is not something I can control.

And that is the problem.

“Sir, you can wait outside,” the nurse said politely.

“No,” I replied.

It was not a request.

Kelly turned sharply toward me, eyes blazing.

“You’re not my father.”

“No,” I said calmly. “Your father left. Someone has to be responsible.”

Her breath stopped.

Just for a second—

just long enough for me to know I hit something raw inside her.

She looked away immediately, jaw trembling before she locked it again.

Good.

Steel attracts steel.

The nurse swallowed nervously and continued her checks. Blood pressure. Temperature. Pulse. Questions Kelly answered with clipped, irritated words.

I stood in the corner, arms crossed, watching.

She hated it.

Hated being observed.

Hated being vulnerable.

And yet, she didn’t ask me to leave again.

She knows I won’t.

She’s learning me.

And I hate that more than anything.

“She’s severely dehydrated,” the nurse explained. “Once we give her fluids, she’ll feel better.”

Kelly rolled her eyes. “I told you I didn’t need to come.”

“You did,” I said quietly.

She froze.

My tone wasn’t sharp.

It wasn’t commanding.

It was… honest.

Too honest.

Honesty is a weapon I never use.

She looked away again, this time slower, as if it cost her something.

The nurse inserted the IV, and Kelly flinched. Not dramatically—just enough to show she wasn’t made of stone, even if she tried to pretend otherwise.

I stepped forward.

Not touching her.

Just… closer.

She noticed.

Of course she did.

Her eyes lifted to mine, wide and confused, as though she couldn’t understand why my presence wasn’t making her smaller—but steadier.

Why I wasn’t enjoying this vulnerability.

Why I wasn’t mocking it.

Why I was here at all.

I don’t understand it either.

“You’re not staying,” she whispered, more plea than command.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

“I am.”

She shut her eyes, exhaling shakily.

Not fear.

Not annoyance.

Something else.

Something I refuse to name.

Minutes passed.

The drip echoed softly.

Her breathing steadied.

She slumped slightly into the bed, exhaustion winning the small war her pride had been fighting.

She tried to speak.

Failed.

Then tried again.

“Why… are you doing this? You don’t know me.”

Ah.

The question.

The one I have avoided even in my own mind.

I approached slowly until I stood just beside her bed. She watched me like prey watches a predator who isn’t acting according to instinct.

“Why?” she whispered again.

I searched her face—her stubbornness, her fragility, the anger she uses to hide the fear she doesn’t want anyone to see.

I leaned in, my voice low, quiet, dangerous in a different way.

“Because I don’t like seeing you fall.”

A beat.

“Not when you fight so hard to stand.”

She stared at me.

No words.

No resistance.

Just… stunned silence.

Then her eyes softened—only for a second, like a flash of warmth leaking through cracks she spent years sealing shut.

She looked down quickly, hiding it.

But I saw.

I always see.

Her vulnerability is a mirror.

A mirror I despise.

A mirror I cannot turn away from.

I sat down in the chair beside her bed, tilting my head back, closing my eyes.

“I’ll stay until the IV is done,” I murmured. “Then I’ll take you home.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

A pause.

“That’s why I will.”

Kelly Parker is a storm.

A disruption.

A flame in a world I built out of ice.

And somehow—

against every rule, every instinct, every piece of discipline I’ve mastered—

I do not want her to go out.

Not yet.

Not ever.