14. Casey
When I wake the following morning, it’s not the pain that hits me first. It’s the quietness.
For a second, I just lie there blinking at the ceiling, trying to figure out what’s different, and then it clicks—the house, or at least this part of it, feels still in a way it hasn’t for the past couple of days.
No movement just beyond the walls, no low murmur of voices, no sense of someone hovering nearby even when I couldn’t see him.
Which probably means he’s either given me space… or he’s close enough that he doesn’t think he needs to check every five minutes anymore.
The thought sits somewhere between relief and something else I don’t bother naming, because I don’t have the energy to unpack it before I’ve even moved. Adriano, taking care of me through this flare, isn’t something I saw coming.
I stay where I am for a moment longer, letting my body catch up, doing that automatic scan I’ve gotten far too used to—how bad is it? What’s going to protest first? What can I get away with before I regret it?
It’s still there, that dull pain. It feels like it always is even when it isn’t.
But it’s… quieter, maybe. Less sharp, less immediate, like it’s retreated just enough that I don’t feel I’m bracing against it constantly.
There’s still that heavy, dragging awareness low in my abdomen, the kind that makes me conscious of every shift, every stretch, but it’s not stopping me. And right now, that feels like a win.
Living with this is a rollercoaster, and even though I had excision surgery five years ago, and the IUD has been life-changing, I still get the occasional flare. It comes mostly when I have a surprise period, which is what happened this time, but at least I don’t spend most days in bed in agony.
“Okay,” I murmur, more to test my voice than anything else, pushing myself up slowly, waiting for that familiar pull.
It comes, but it doesn’t spike.
That’s enough for me to know I can get up and start living again. I just have to do it slowly and with more care than usual.
I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on my thighs for a second, just breathing, and the thought comes back again, stronger this time, pushing past the lingering exhaustion.
It’s time to feel like myself again.
Not just functional. Not just… surviving the worst of it.
Actually, like me.
Clean. Awake. Like I’ve shaken some of this off instead of just waiting for it to loosen its grip.
A shower will help.
It always helps.
Even if it takes more out of me than it gives back, there’s something about the heat, the routine of it, the small normality that makes everything feel a little less like I’m stuck in it.
I push myself to my feet before I can overthink it, steadying myself when the room tilts slightly, waiting it out until everything settles back into place.
“You’ve done worse,” I mutter under my breath because, apparently, I talk to myself now, which is probably a sign I’ve been cooped up too long. Except this time I haven’t been alone, and that makes me smile.
The hallway is quiet when I step out, the air cooler than in the bedroom, grounding in a way that makes me feel a little more present, a little less like I’ve just woken up inside someone else’s body.
He’s in my small kitchen.
Because of course he is.
Adriano stands with his back to me, sleeves rolled, doing something at the counter with the same focused stillness he seems to bring to everything, like even making coffee is something that requires his full attention.
He turns the second I step further into the room, his gaze landing on me and holding just long enough that I become very aware of how I must look—barefoot, slightly pale, probably still a little slower than usual.
“You’re up,” he says.
“I am,” I reply, leaning my hip lightly against the counter because it’s easier than standing completely upright. “I’m going to shower.”
His expression doesn’t shift much, but I can see the calculation behind it, the quick assessment he does before he speaks.
“You shouldn’t be on your feet for long.”
“It’s a shower,” I say, already pushing away from the counter because if I stay there, he’s going to keep talking and I don’t have the patience for it this morning. “I’m not planning on running laps. And I feel gross.”
“It still requires effort, and you don’t look gross.”
I think there was a compliment in there somewhere, but I can’t be sure.
“So does existing,” I shoot back, glancing at him over my shoulder as I head toward the hallway. “I’m managing that just fine.”
“I’ll stay close.”
I stop mid-step, turning back fully this time, because, of course, he would say that. “You don’t need to do that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“I’ve showered alone for, I don’t know, my entire adult life,” I say, folding my arms, already feeling the beginnings of a headache that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with him being… him. “I think I can handle it.”
He doesn’t move, just looks at me in that steady, unhurried way that somehow makes arguing feel like you’re the only one expending energy.
“You struggled to walk to the bathroom yesterday,” he says evenly. “You’re not doing this without someone nearby.”
“Nearby,” I repeat, because apparently that’s where we are now.
“Yes.”
I open my mouth, ready to argue properly, to push back the way I usually would, and then I just… don’t.
Because the truth is, I don’t have the energy for a full debate, and part of me knows exactly how this ends anyway.
“Fine,” I mutter, turning away again. “Stay nearby. Just—don’t come in unless I ask.”
“I’m not an idiot. When I see a woman naked, it’s because she wants me to. I don’t have to sneak peeks at my employees.”
“Debatable on the idiot thing, and I’m not touching that other comment with a ten-foot pole,” I call over my shoulder, pushing the bathroom door open before he can respond. I hear his deep chuckle all the way through the annex.
The heat hits me the second I step under the water, steam curling around me, softening the edges of everything in a way I hadn’t realized I needed until now, and I can’t stop the moan that leaves my lips.
For a moment, I just stand there.
No moving, no rushing, just letting it soak in, letting the warmth settle into muscles that still feel tight and heavy, like they haven’t quite forgiven me for the past couple of days.
God, that feels so good.
I rest my hand against the tile, closing my eyes, and for a few seconds I let myself just exist in it, not thinking about what comes next or how long this will last or whether I’m pushing too far.
Just… this, pure heaven.
I lift my face to the water, soaking my hair, and reach for the shampoo.
I pour more than I need into my palm, lathering my scalp until suds run down my back.
My mind drifts to Adriano’s comment about seeing a woman naked, and I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have that intense gaze of his focused on me.
My nipples bead at the thought of his hands running over my skin, soothing, stroking.
When I first met him, I remember thinking he was the hottest man I’d ever met.
He still is, but he also felt untouchable.
Like a priceless piece of art, beautiful but cold.
Now he feels closer, and that’s the thought that snaps me out of my lust-induced fantasy about my boss.
Fuck, I need to remember who he is to me. Lines have blurred, and they need redefining.
Conditioning my hair is where it starts to feel like work again.
It’s such a normal thing, something I’ve done a thousand times without thinking, but halfway through I can feel it—the strain in my arms, the way holding them up for too long starts to pull at everything else. My blood pressure is dropping a little too. I can feel it happening.
I pause, letting the water run over me, catching my breath in a way that feels disproportionate to what I’m actually doing. “Seriously?” I mutter, tipping my head back slightly, equal parts annoyed and tired.
This is the part I hate.
Not the pain, not even really the exhaustion, but the way it lingers, the way it makes everything just a little harder than it should be, like I’ve been downgraded to a less efficient version of myself, and I’m expected to just accept it.
I finish slowly, breaking it up into stages instead of pushing through, because I know better than to rush it, as I’ll pay for it later.
Still, by the time I’m done, I can feel it again—that low, familiar fatigue settling back in, not overwhelming, just… there.
Present.
Waiting.
I dry off, get dressed, move through everything carefully, and by the time I get to my hair, I’m already regretting leaving it until last.
I plug the dryer in anyway.
It starts fine.
For about half a minute.
Then my arm starts to ache.
I switch hands.
That’s worse.
I stare at myself in the mirror for a second, damp hair sticking to my face, patience wearing thin. “This is ridiculous,” I mutter, trying again, slower this time, pausing between sections, like somehow that’s going to make it less annoying.
It doesn’t.
It feels like climbing something I should be able to walk up without thinking, and the frustration sits just under the surface, not quite enough to boil over, but definitely there.
There’s a knock at the door.
Light.
Measured.
“You alright?” Adriano’s voice comes through, closer than I expected.
“I’m fine,” I call back automatically, even as I lower the dryer for a second because my arm needs a break.
There’s a pause.
Then the handle turns.
I should probably protest.
I don’t, because I find I want the distraction of him to keep from crying out of sheer frustration.
He steps in, his gaze landing on me, taking everything in quickly—the half-dried hair, the way I’m holding the dryer, the slight tension in my shoulders that I can’t quite hide.
“I’ve got it,” he says, reaching for the dryer.
“I can do it,” I reply, even as my fingers loosen around it.
“I know, but let me,” he says calmly. “I’ll finish it for you.”
There’s no judgment in it, no hint that he thinks I can’t, just that he’s already decided it makes more sense for him to do it instead. He wraps his care up as efficiency. It’s something I’ve noticed about him. He takes care of those who matter to him. It’s his love language of sorts.
And right now, rejecting that feels like more effort than handing it over.
So, I let him.
He adjusts the setting without asking, stepping closer, his attention shifting completely to what he’s doing like it’s the only thing that matters.
“Sit,” he adds.
I glance at the stool, then at him, then back again, because this is… a lot. “This is unnecessary.”
“Can you just let me do this?” He pauses. “Please?”
I huff out a quiet laugh despite myself and sit because apparently I’ve also given up on winning any arguments today. And he just pulled out the big guns with that soft please.
The warm air moves through my hair, steady and even, and I hadn’t expected this part—the way it feels to have someone else take over something so small, so ordinary, without making it into a whole thing.
He’s careful without being hesitant, working through the strands methodically, untangling without pulling. Running the brush through the strands gently.
“You’ve done this before,” I say, watching him in the mirror.
“Yes.”
“For Letty.”
“Yes.”
“That makes sense,” I murmur. “Does she fight you on it?”
“She does,” he says, tone dry. “And she has significantly more knots than you do.”
I laugh, the sound soft but real. “I believe that.”
“She doesn’t have the patience to sit still.”
“Neither do I usually,” I admit.
“You have plenty of patience with Letty,” he says over the sound of the dryer.
“She’s different. She makes it easy to be around her. She’s smart, fun, thoughtful.”
I glance at him through the mirror, catching the faint shift at the corner of his mouth this time, something that almost qualifies as a smile.
“She’s all those things, and more.”
The moment stretches a little after that, quieter, but not awkward.
Just… noticeable. I close my eyes and let myself enjoy the process of having my needs taken care of for a change.
“That actually feels really nice,” I say, before I can stop myself.
He doesn’t pause. “Good.”
“I mean it,” I add, softer now, because it feels like it should be said properly. “Thank you.”
His eyes meet mine in the mirror briefly before he looks back to what he’s doing. “You don’t need to thank me for something that needed doing,” he says.
“That’s not why I’m thanking you.”
He doesn’t respond to that.
But something shifts anyway.
Subtle.
Unspoken.
And for a second, neither of us looks away.