Maddy
MADDY
A s Mihai leads me down the hall, my nerves are on fire. It’s one thing to be staying in his suite; it’s another thing entirely to be staying in his room. I didn’t think it through when I grabbed the silk shorts and tank—it’s just so damn hot these days.
Covering it up with a robe didn’t help, either.
But now, feeling his gaze flicker over me every so often, I’m starting to regret it. I keep telling myself he won’t be lying next to me. He’s probably got a couch in his room, or… somewhere else he’ll go.
Right?
When we finally reach his bedroom, he opens the door and steps back, letting me in first. The moment I walk in, I freeze. There, in the middle of the room, is one bed. Just one. And it’s massive, the kind that takes up half the space and screams luxury.
But the size doesn’t matter because now all I can think about is how there’s nowhere else for him to sleep.
“Mihai,” I start, my voice wavering, “there’s… only one bed.”
He glances at the bed, then at me, a casual shrug lifting his shoulders. “Yeah, but it doesn’t have to be weird,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “It’s huge. I’ll stay on my side; you stay on yours. No big deal.”
Easy for him to say. He’s looking at it like it’s just a place to sleep, while my mind is going a hundred different directions, none of which are helpful right now. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to nod. “Alright. If you say so.”
He gives me a small smile, as if sensing my hesitation but choosing not to push it. “I’m gonna grab a quick shower,” he says, gesturing toward the bathroom. “Make yourself comfortable.”
I nod, watching him disappear into the bathroom, the door closing with a quiet click. The sound of water running fills the room, and I’m left alone, staring at the bed like it’s some sort of trap.
Removing my robe and tossing it over an armchair, I finally sit down, pulling the covers over myself, and the scent hits me immediately. His cologne is in the sheets, a mix of bergamot, sandalwood and something dark and warm that makes my stomach twist in ways I don’t want to examine too closely. I press my head into the pillow, breathing it in despite myself, feeling both comforted and thrown off balance.
Bloody hell, he smells like sin.
The sound of the shower stops, and I sit up, trying to shake off the strange sense of intimacy that’s settled around me. When the bathroom door opens a few minutes later, I expect him to come out fully dressed, ready to keep a safe distance.
But instead, he walks out in nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants, his hair damp and wild, drops of water still clinging to his skin.
Oh God. Mistake. Major mistake.
He walks over to the bed and sits down next to me, and I feel my pulse spike, every nerve in my body alert and aware of just how close he is. For a moment, neither of us says anything, the silence stretching out in a way that’s both comfortable and nerve-wracking. Finally, he clears his throat, breaking the tension.
“So… tell me about yourself,” he says, leaning back on his elbows, watching me with a curious look. “What was your life like before all this? Apart from your singing, that is.”
The question catches me off guard. It’s been so long since anyone’s asked me about my life, about who I was before all of this chaos. I hesitate, but his gaze is steady and warm, and I find myself wanting to share.
“Well… my dad passed away when I was a teenager,” I begin, my voice quiet. “After that, my mom decided we’d move back to her old hometown in Romania. It was a fresh start for all of us, you know? We spent five years there, trying to build a life again.”
Mihai nods, his expression softening as he listens. “Sounds like a big change. Was it hard?”
I swallow, nodding. “Yeah, it was. But it felt… right, somehow. Like we were where we were supposed to be. My mom always talked about Romania like it was magical— like it was home. So, I tried to believe that too.”
He shifts slightly, his gaze intense, focused on me in a way that makes me feel both exposed and understood. “And your sister? She liked it there too?”
“She did,” I say, smiling a little at the memory. “She was so young, but she loved everything about it. The mountains, the people, the way everything felt close-knit, like one big family.”
A heavy silence settles between us, and I can feel the weight of it pressing down, bringing back memories I’ve tried to bury. I look down at my hands, twisting my fingers together, and Mihai notices immediately.
“What is it, ?” he asks, his voice soft, urging.
I take a shaky breath, feeling the familiar guilt rising in my chest. “I… I chose the restaurant that night,” I whisper, barely able to say the words. “We were supposed to go somewhere else, but I wanted to try this new place, and they agreed. They went along with it because it was my birthday. If I hadn’t…”
My voice cracks, and I bite my lip, fighting to keep the tears at bay. But they come anyway, spilling over as the weight of my choices crashes down on me. “If I hadn’t picked that place, they’d still be here. It’s my fault.”
Mihai is silent for a moment, and I don’t dare look up, afraid of what I might see in his eyes. But then he reaches out, his hand resting gently on mine, grounding me.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. “You didn’t know, . There’s no way you could have known what was going to happen.”
I shake my head, the guilt so deep it feels like it’s carved into my bones. “But it was my choice. They followed me. They trusted me, and I led them straight into?—”
“Listen to me. This wasn’t your fault,” he interjects gently. “You can’t carry the weight of their decisions or their actions. It’s not fair to yourself. You were just living, , like anyone else would.”
I let out a shuddering breath wiping at my cheeks as his words sink in, though they don’t quite erase the guilt.
“I keep going over it, replaying it in my mind, wondering if I could have done something, anything to change it.”
He shifts a little closer. “, sometimes… sometimes bad things just happen. No rhyme or reason. And it’s not fair, but blaming yourself isn’t gonna bring them back.”
I nod slowly, trying to let his words settle over me, to let them soothe the ache I’ve been carrying. He’s close, his touch gentle, and somehow, it makes all of this just a little easier to bear. I focus on his hand wrapped around mine, the warmth, the steadiness.
“Come on,” he says softly, shifting just a bit closer. “Let me take your mind off it. I can tell you about the time Marina nearly got me banned from getting a driver’s license. It’s a hell of a story.”
I glance up at him, managing a faint smile. “She got you in trouble?”
He chuckles, a low sound that makes me feel lighter. “Oh, more than you’d believe. She may look sweet now, but Marina had this way of convincing me to do the most reckless shit.” He leans back, his gaze turning nostalgic as he remembers.
“One time, she convinced me to ‘borrow’ our father’s car. We were thirteen, and I, like an idiot, thought I could drive because I’d watched enough movies to ‘know the basics.’ ”
I cover my mouth, already stifling a laugh. “Oh no…”
“Oh yeah. We snuck out with the keys while he was in a meeting, and I was all set to impress her. Got about two blocks down the road before I drove straight into a hedge—nearly took out the whole garden of our neighbor’s house.” He shakes his head, a grin tugging at his lips. “She swore she’d never let me live it down.”
The image of a young Mihai trying to drive, only to end up in a hedge, has me laughing despite myself. It’s a real laugh, one that feels so foreign yet so natural. “So, I take it you two didn’t get away with it?”
“Oh, no,” he says, smirking. “Our dad had us help fix the garden as ‘punishment,’ but honestly, he was just relieved we didn’t end up totaling the car. Marina just stood there the whole time, supervising, telling me what I’d done wrong, as if she hadn’t been the one cheering me on.”
I laugh again, and it feels good, even if only for a little while. I look at him, finding myself drawn to the way he’s watching me, a soft smile playing on his lips, his eyes focused on mine. There’s a warmth there, something that feels personal, intimate, like he’s seeing all the way through me.
His gaze lingers, dropping to my lips before meeting my eyes again, and I feel my heart beat a little faster.
Without thinking, my hand drifts forward, my fingers tracing lightly over a tattoo on his chest—a burning rose, the edges of the petals blending into flames that curl toward his collarbone. The ink is beautiful and intricate, and I can feel the beat of his heart beneath my touch.
“What’s this one for?” I ask softly, looking up at him.
He glances down at the tattoo, his hand coming up to cover mine gently. “That one… it’s for my mother. Her name was Rosalie, and, well…” He pauses, a hint of vulnerability in his expression. “The flames are in memory of her spirit.”
I trace the lines with my fingertips, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady rise and fall of his chest.
“Rosalie,” I murmur, letting the name linger. “It’s beautiful.”
“So was she,” he says quietly, his gaze dropping to where my fingers are still resting against his skin. “She was… fierce, kind, everything good in this world.” There’s a pause, and I can see the weight of that memory flicker across his expression. “She passed a while back, but the name and the fire felt right. It’s a reminder of who she was.”
I look up, meeting his gaze, and I can see the depth of that loss in his eyes, the way he’s carrying it with him, just as I carry my own. It makes me feel closer to him somehow, like we’re connected in this strange, quiet way that doesn’t need words. I give his hand a gentle squeeze.
“Thank you for sharing that with me,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.
He nods, his thumb brushing over the back of my hand as he studies me, his gaze soft yet intense. “I don’t talk about her much. But… I wanted you to know.”
We sit there in silence for a moment, the world outside fading, leaving just the two of us in this small, quiet space. His hand is warm over mine, grounding, and I find myself leaning into that warmth, feeling a sense of peace I haven’t felt in a long time.
Finally, he speaks, his voice low. “You know, …Going through what you have, and still being here, still finding ways to laugh… that’s strength.”
I look at him, feeling so much gratitude that my heart aches. He’s looking at me in a way that makes me feel seen and understood, and I can feel a part of me beginning to heal just from the way he’s sitting here, steady and real, letting me in.
“Thank you,” I say softly, my voice barely more than a whisper. It feels like a beginning, like a step toward something new, something that might just make all the difference.