Page 45 of His To Unravel (His & Hers Duet #1)

TWENTY-EIGHT

olivia

The first thing I notice is the silence.

Nathaniel isn’t awake. It’s a disorienting realization.

In all the mornings I’ve spent in his penthouse back in Boston, he has always risen before me, his side of the bed cool by the time I stir.

But now, as I blink against the soft morning light filtering through the curtains, he’s still lying beside me, his broad chest rising and falling in steady rhythm.

For a long moment, I don’t move. I watch the curve of his slightly parted lips and the faint crease between his brows that never seems to fade, even in sleep. Stripped of his usual composure, he looks younger. Softer. Almost vulnerable.

He must be exhausted.

Nathaniel hides it well, but the cracks in his polished veneer have been showing.

The intensity of the evening clearly affected him—his confessions, the careful way he drew my bath, dried my hair, and massaged my feet until I couldn’t resist the pull of sleep.

I wonder how late he stayed awake, watching over me the way he always does.

Nathaniel’s attentiveness can border on obsessive, but I understand why he feels the need to fuss over me .

The revelation still buzzes beneath my skin: he’s been watching me for months. Long before we officially met.

What unsettles me most isn’t his admission, but the lengths he has gone to keep me in his orbit. The idea that he had been so close to abandoning his education entirely, only to reverse course when he saw me on campus, is hard to reconcile.

The rational part of me knows this kind of behavior should be a red flag. But walking away feels impossible—hypocritical, even.

A darker part of me craves the devotion he gives so freely. The way his entire world seems to revolve around me, the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing keeping him alive—it reassures something deep within me that I’ve never dared to name.

For once, I’m not just a resource or a collection of achievements. Nathaniel doesn’t care about my accomplishments or what I can do for him; he cares about me.

And though his fixation should be a deterrent, I can’t deny how much it satisfies an unspoken need within me.

I turn my gaze to him, studying his impossibly handsome face as he sleeps.

My insecurities whisper that I’m not enough, that a man as extraordinary as Nathaniel won’t always want me with this same intensity. But his actions have never wavered. He has proven, time and time again, that he means every word he says.

My fingers trace the sharp angle of his cheekbone, down the line of his jaw. His brow furrows slightly, as if worrying about me even in his sleep. I know he’s terrified I’ll leave. He doesn’t need to say it; it’s etched into every touch, every lingering look.

I sit up slowly, careful not to disturb him. I don’t know how to alleviate his worries, but the least I can do now is let him rest.

Slipping out of bed, I pad to the chair by the window and pull on a pair of his sweatpants and a cardigan over his shirt. The floor is cool against my bare feet as I move to the door, casting one last glance at him before stepping out .

I make myself a cup of tea, grab my e-reader, and sit at the dining table. Settling into the chair, I try to immerse myself in the story, but my focus wavers. My mind keeps drifting back to last night—to Nathaniel’s confessions and to the one remaining puzzle piece I haven’t yet brought up.

His brother.

The portraits in the Caldwell mansion had been unmistakable. Nathaniel and his twin, standing side by side, identical in every way except for the expressions in their eyes.

He’s never mentioned a brother, and at dinner, there was no reference to him either. The omission feels glaring now, even as I remind myself of Nathaniel’s nervous glances throughout the evening, the way he seemed to brace himself for a question I never asked.

I sip my tea, staring out the window at the city beyond.

I haven’t asked because I trust him to tell me in his own time. If he hasn’t told me, there must be a reason. Whatever it is, it won’t change how I feel about him. I love him, regardless.

The thought stops me in my tracks.

I set the mug down carefully, the realization blooming like a warm ember in my chest.

I love him.

Before I can process the weight of the revelation, the sound of heavy footfalls shatters the stillness.

“Olivia!” Nathaniel’s voice rings out, rough and frantic. I turn just in time to see him burst into the room, his blue eyes wild with panic. His gaze locks on me, and he stumbles forward, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.

I push out of my seat, alarmed. “Nathaniel, what?—”

He doesn’t let me finish. He crumples around me, dropping to his knees as his arms wind tightly around my waist. His head presses against my stomach, and I feel the tremor in his shoulders as he clings to me .

“You were gone,” he gasps, his voice breaking. “I thought you left me.”

My heart twists painfully at the sight of him, so strong and unshakable in every other moment, now reduced to this. I slide my hands into his hair, cradling his head as I murmur softly, “I’m here, Nathaniel. I’m not going anywhere.”

His grip tightens, and he lets out a shuddering breath, the weight of his panic slowly ebbing as I hold him. “I woke up, and you weren’t there. I thought— fuck .” He cuts himself off, burying his face against me once more.

“I’m here,” I repeat, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “I won’t leave you.”

Minutes pass as I stroke his hair, whispering reassurances until his breathing evens out. When I coax him to the couch, he lets me guide him, though his hand never leaves mine.

He sits heavily, and when I move to settle beside him, he snags my waist and pulls me onto his lap. “No distance,” he mutters, his voice hoarse.

I don’t argue. I snuggle against him, letting him hold me close. His hands roam absently, tracing slow patterns along my back and arms.

The silence stretches between us, heavy but not uncomfortable. I feel his lips press against my neck, soft and fleeting, as if he can’t help himself.

Finally, his voice breaks the quiet. “Did you mean it?” he asks, his tone raw.

I tilt my head to look at him. “Mean what?”

His gaze meets mine, searching, vulnerable. “You said you wouldn’t leave. Did you mean it?”

The pain in his eyes steals my breath. I cup his face, my thumbs brushing against his cheekbones as I whisper, “Unless you ask me to, I won’t leave.”

He exhales shakily. “Okay,” he says, his voice barely audible .

He leans in, his lips capturing mine in a kiss that is both tender and consuming. His hands tighten around me, pulling me impossibly closer as if sealing the promise between us.

Before the moment can deepen, the sharp chime of the doorbell reverberates through the apartment.

I scramble off Nathaniel’s lap while he groans, dragging a hand over his face.

“Who the hell is ringing the doorbell this early?” he mutters, his tone thick with irritation.

I straighten my clothes and mumble, “We should probably answer it.”

He doesn’t reply, just runs a hand through his hair and strides ahead of me toward the door, still muttering under his breath. I trail behind him, a sense of unease coiling in my chest.

When he opens it, I catch sight of Renée Caldwell. Her smile is warm and polite, but her sharp blue eyes scan me with an interest I can’t quite place.

“Good morning, Olivia,” she greets brightly, then looks past me to Nathaniel. “May I come in?”

Nathaniel steps forward, his posture stiff. “Of course, Mother.” He gestures for her to enter.

Renée steps inside, holding a stack of neatly tied boxes. “I thought I’d bring breakfast,” she explains, turning to me with a smile. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Not at all,” I reply quickly, stepping aside as she walks toward the kitchen. Nathaniel’s demeanor doesn’t soften as he follows her, and I can’t help but notice the distance between them, like there is an invisible wall neither dares to breach.

As she places the boxes on the counter, Nathaniel remarks, “I didn’t hear the intercom buzz.”

“Of course you didn’t,” she replies breezily, untying the ribbons. “The concierge knows me. Why wouldn’t they let me up? ”

Renée opens the boxes, revealing an assortment of pastries and sandwiches that makes my stomach rumble in spite of myself.

“I wasn’t sure what you would like, so I brought a variety,” she says.

“There are plain croissants, almond, pain au chocolat, and a few savory things, smoked salmon tartines and egg-and-cheese brioche rolls.”

A small smile tugs at my lips. The gesture reminds me of Nathaniel and his attentiveness. I glance at him as he begins pulling plates out of the cupboard, his movements almost mechanical.

He sets a plate in front of me first, placing one sweet and one savory pastry on it before glancing my way to ensure I am satisfied. Then, he turns to Renée. “Would you like coffee, Mother?”

She pauses, visibly surprised by the offer, before nodding. “Yes, thank you. Black.”

I watch Nathaniel as he prepares drinks for both of us, his focus shifting back to me every few moments. His hand brushes mine as he sets the cup down, his focus entirely on my comfort.

As we sit at the dining table, I notice how Renée observes him too as he fusses over me, refilling my water glass without asking, adjusting my plate to make sure it is perfectly positioned. His hand occasionally finds its way to my arm or shoulder, grounding himself through touch.

I realize this isn’t about me. His mother’s presence seems to be giving him anxiety, and his attentiveness to me is his way of coping.

Renée’s curious expression only deepens as she watches her son, as if she’s never seen this side of him before.

“There’s plenty of room back home, you know,” Renée remarks suddenly, her tone light but pointed. “I don’t understand why you insist on staying here on your own, Nathaniel.”