Page 60 of He Should Be Mine

I don’t know what he sees when he looks at me. Is it some fragile pet to protect, a burden, a mistake? Or a brat with far too much attitude? I can’t tell. But I know what I see when I look at him. Solid ground. The kind of man who catches things before they fall.

When he returns, he’s holding a mug in one hand and a jar of honey in the other. He sits again beside the sofa and rests them on the table next to me.

“Sip it slow,” he says. “Small sips. Just enough to soothe.”

I blink up at him, too tired to lift my head. My lips part, but nothing comes out. Just a wheeze of air. My throat’s too raw.

He sees that. Doesn’t flinch. Just helps me sit up, one arm braced behind my shoulders. His hand is warm, solid, big against my spine. I let myself lean against him for a second longer than necessary. Just to feel it.

I try to make a joke, something about how fruity drinks should have tiny umbrellas or how warm water is an affront to nature. But when I open my mouth, all I manage is a pathetic rasp.

He notices. Doesn’t comment. Just waits.

He holds the mug while I sip. The liquid is lukewarm, tangy, citrusy and medicinal. It burns going down, and my throat spasms in protest. But I manage three sips before turning my face away.

“Do you want more honey?”

I shake my head.

With his help, I try another sip, but I can’t get my throat to cooperate.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

Dario shakes his head. “Don’t be.”

He lowers me back down gently, tucks the blanket up higher. His fingers brush my hair back from my forehead. My cheeks are flushed, fever-warm. My body has always been good at looking desirable. But it’s less good at keeping secrets.

He sits beside me again, as if it is the most natural thing in the world, arms resting on his knees. Watching me.

I hate being looked at like this. Like I’m breakable. Like I’m not the pretty little plaything who always has a sharp smile and something clever to say. I hate how soft his eyes are. I hate how good it feels.

I want to say thank you. Or something soft and teasing likeyou make a good nurse. But the words would hurt, and anyway, it doesn’t feel like the time.

So I just look at him. Hold his gaze. Let the silence say what I can’t.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Dario says quietly.

I know that. I know it wasn’t my fault. But I still always wonder what I did to spark it. What I wore. What I said. What I didn’t say.

I close my eyes. My throat is thick with something I can’t swallow down.

Dario adds, softer this time. “I hate that you’re hurt.”

Something inside me cracks.

I shift, turning my face into the sofa cushions, not because of the pain, but because I can’t look at him. Not with that in his eyes. Not with the way he sounds like he means it.

He’s close. Too close.

I feel the heat of his hand hovering above my shoulder before it gently settles there. Not a touch with intent. Just… presence. Steady. Unmoving. Safe.

God, I could cry. I don’t. But my eyes sting. My throat works soundlessly.

He doesn’t press. Just stays with me. Letting me exist in the quiet without trying to fix it. He doesn’t ask what happened last night. Doesn’t push for details I can’t give. He just stays.

And I let him. Because right now, I don’t need questions. I just need this.

Someone steady. Someone who knows when to be quiet. Someone who’ll sit beside me while I’m sick and aching and small, and not leave.