Chapter Forty-nine
Abigail-Ann
“If I had to choose between breathing or loving you, I would say ‘I love you’ with my last breath.”
~ Shannon Dermott
I woke to the scent of something sweet and warm, my body still heavy with sleep. Blinking drowsily, I saw Mikkel walking in, a tray balanced in his hands. Before I could even attempt to sit up, he set the tray on the dresser and was at my side, his strong hands gently guiding me against the pillows.
“Good morning,” I mumbled, my voice thick with sleep.
“Good morning, Red,” he said as he settled at the edge of the bed, his fingers already finding my feet.
That was when I took him in—completely shirtless, tattoos on full display. It was something I’d seen a thousand times, but never got tired of it. I loved the way the ink wrapped around him, as if it was a part of him, just like the initials of my name engraved on the chain around his neck and wrists. Every time I saw them, it felt like a mark of something deeper between us.
Then, as if it was second nature, his hands moved from my feet to my lower abdomen, then to my back. The gentle pressure made my body melt.
I exhaled. “I’m feeling less nauseous today. And… thanks for making breakfast.”
“My pleasure,” he whispered before pressing a lingering kiss to my thigh.
I got up to brush my teeth, and when I returned, Mikkel was setting a tray on my lap. It was neatly arranged with a fruit smoothie, a fresh fruit bowl, French toast, and a bagel sandwich layered with egg, ham, and avocado. Beside it, a glass of water and a dose of Midol waited, his attention to detail as thoughtful as ever.
“I Googled what was best for cramps,” he said casually, still rubbing slow, soothing circles into my foot. “Fruits and eggs came up a lot. But I know you don’t like seeing papaya in your fruit salads, so I put in the smoothie instead.”
A lump formed in my throat as warmth unfurled within me, moved by the depth of thoughtfulness behind it all. I didn’t have the words to thank him, so I just kissed him. Slow and deep, hoping he could feel what I couldn’t say.
When I pulled back, I exhaled. “I want to eat on the floor.”
Without hesitation, he moved, settling onto the floor with me as if it was the most normal thing in the world. I took a bite of my bagel sandwich before glancing at him. “Are you gonna eat?”
“I already did.”
Of course he did.
“By the way,” he added, his voice even but firm, “I had Morison clear my schedule so we could stay in for a while. At least until you’re feeling better.”
I paused mid-bite. “You—”
“I know I didn’t have to,” he said before I could argue. “But I wanted to.”
I swallowed, staring at him for a long moment before looking away, the weight of his gaze almost too much.
“What do you want to do today?” he asked after a beat.
I sighed. “I want to dye and wash my hair. I missed wash day, and it’s driving me insane.”
“Let me do it for you.”
I blinked. “Wash my hair?”
“Yeah, and dye it.”
I snorted. “Are you sure? My hair is thick, and the dye is—”
“No excuses,” he cut in smoothly. “When you’re done eating, I’ll get it done for you.”
Breakfast was delicious . Every bite of the bagel sandwich, the warm French toast, and the perfectly sweet fruit had me stuffed and satisfied. And Mikkel? Well, he made sure I didn’t lift a finger the entire time. After I finished, he pulled me back onto the bed for another massage—this one even better than the first. His hands were magic, easing the last bits of tension from my body, making me forget about the lingering cramps altogether.
Eventually, I dragged myself into the bathroom, needing a moment to just sit and breathe before tackling the beast that was wash day. But to my absolute shock, Mikkel strolled in not even a minute later, his arms full of products—shampoo, conditioner, a hair mask, all sorts of oils, combs, and even the exact hair dye I used.
I blinked at him, my mouth parting. “Where did you get those?”
His lips tugged into a proud smile as he set everything on the counter. “When you called me yesterday, I did some runs. Ulta was one of them. The representative there gave me a very passionate lecture about how curly hair needs special care. And I know your hair is important to you, so I needed to make sure I got the right products.”
I just stared at him, my brain short-circuiting.
What the fuck?
What the actual fuck?
“You went to Ulta?” My voice came out small, almost disbelieving.
“Of course,” he said, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Even that curly hair quiz they made me take was worth it.”
My eyes widened. “ Oh my God. ”
And suddenly, I was sobbing.
I covered my mouth, shaking my head. “I can’t believe you went shopping at Ulta.”
He chuckled, brushing a stray tear from my cheek. “And I’d do it again.”
I watched, speechless, as he rolled up his sleeves, slipped on gloves, and mixed the dye with precision. His hands moved with practiced ease, sectioning my hair effortlessly.
“You know what you’re doing, huh?”
“Yeah. I have a sheet right here with steps from Aurora.” He pointed to the laminated sheet I hadn’t even realized was propped up in the shower. He called my sister? And wait, he fucking laminated it? “Then I watched about four YouTube videos for reinforcement.”
I huffed a soft laugh, shaking my head. “You never fail to amaze me.”
He bent down, pressing a kiss to my lips before murmuring, “Let’s get started, Red.”
And he did.
Mikkel worked methodically, ensuring the dye coated every strand. He even went over it twice, something I never had the patience for. When it was time to rinse, he guided me to the sink, his hands steady and sure.
Then came the real care.
He started with a pre-shampoo treatment, gently working it through my curls before detangling with slow, deliberate movements. Next came the shampoo—twice, to make sure the dye was completely out, he explained. His fingers massaged my scalp repeatedly, his touch firm but careful, lulling me into complete relaxation.
When he applied the hair mask, the scent of vanilla and honey filled the air, warm and familiar. He took his time, making sure every inch of my hair was coated before moving on to the conditioner with the same thoughtful attention .
“How does that feel? Am I doing it right?” he asked, his voice softer now.
I let out a slow breath, eyes closed. “You’re doing it even better. And so much gentler.”
His lips brushed the top of my head before he applied a rich moisturizer, his fingers gliding through my curls with unhurried care. I tilted my head, meeting his gaze as he continued, his touch both gentle and sure.
“You know,” I murmured, “if you ever get tired of your billion-dollar company… you might have a future in this.”
He smiled, amusement flickering in his eyes, before tucking a damp curl behind my ear. His knuckles brushed my cheek. “I’ll keep that in mind, baby.”
After helping me up from the shower bench, he stepped outside while I took a quick shower.
When I stepped out, steam curling around me, the soft hum of the heater was the first thing I noticed—a relief, given the cold outside. Then my eyes landed on the neatly folded clothes waiting for me, already picked out, as if he knew I’d be too tired to choose them myself.
Just then, he walked in from the living room, holding a hairdryer and a few other hair tools.
“You did not buy a four-hundred-dollar hair dryer!” I stared at him, half in disbelief and the other in amazement.
He chuckled softly, running a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t paying attention to the price tag.” His eyes met mine, amusement flickering. “The sales rep said it’s best for your hair type, so I didn’t hesitate. Also grabbed some heat protectant.”
I blinked, torn between wanting to scream at him for spending almost five hundred dollars on a hairdryer or crying because he cared enough to buy it.
“Sit down,” he said gently, guiding me to the vanity chair. “Let’s dry your hair.”
I looked at him, speechless, then closed my eyes, silently thanking God for blessing me with this man .
He sectioned my hair with careful precision, spraying heat protectant and working it through with his fingers.
“Where did you learn to do this?”
“I’ve seen my mom dry Emilia’s hair,” he said with a fond smile.
I smiled, touched. “That’s sweet,” I whispered.
After blow-drying, he braided—well, did his best to—my hair into four cornrows, then oiled my scalp.
“All done,” he said, stepping back.
I looked at him, overwhelmed. “No one’s ever done this for me. I’m so grateful,” I whispered.
I kissed him, pouring everything into that moment. We spent the rest of the weekend on the couch, watching movies, wrapped in each other’s company.