Chapter 35
Claire's POV
"Don't touch me," I snapped, jerking my hand away forcefully. "You lied to me, Daniel." My voice was sharp despite my weakened state, eyes blazing with fury.
Daniel's expression fell, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Claire, I—" He ran a hand through his hair. "You're right. I should have told you sooner. I'm sorry." The apology sounded genuine, his eyes meeting mine directly.
I looked away, not wanting him to see how his words affected me. "How convenient," I muttered, but some of the fire had gone out of my voice.
"I'm not asking you to forgive me right now," he continued, his voice low. "But please, at least eat something before taking medication. That's just basic health advice, nothing more."
I stared at him for a long moment, the rational part of my brain acknowledging he was right about the medicine. And despite everything, I knew my tendency to hold grudges wasn't always healthy. My father was the same way—unforgiving to a fault—and I'd sworn I wouldn't become like him.
"Fine," I finally said, not quite ready to let go of my anger but too exhausted to maintain it. "But this doesn't mean we're okay."
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the wave of nausea, and shuffled back to the bedroom to lie down. The mattress dipped under me, a small relief against the chaos in my body.
A little while later, I heard clattering from the kitchen—pots, pans, the faint sizzle of something cooking. The smell of chicken broth and toasted bread wafted through the apartment, simple but comforting. My stomach growled despite itself. Daniel appeared in the doorway, a tray in his hands, loaded with a bowl of chicken soup with noodles and a plate of golden toast. "Eat," he said, setting it on the nightstand. His voice was gruff, but his eyes were soft, searching mine for a reaction.
I didn't say anything, just took the bowl and sipped the warm broth. It soothed my throat, the heat spreading through me, easing the chills for a moment. I ate slowly, my body too weak to rush, while Daniel hovered nearby, checking my forehead with the back of his hand every so often. "Temperature's going down a bit," he mumbled after the third check, his fingers lingering against my skin longer than necessary. I didn't pull away.
The day dragged on, and I drifted in and out of sleep, the fever pulling me under like a heavy tide. Each time I woke, Daniel was there—adjusting the blankets, offering water, his presence a quiet anchor in the haze. By late afternoon, I felt marginally better, the fever less intense, though my body still ached like I'd run a marathon.
Something shifted inside me as I watched him move around my apartment, caring for me with such focused attention. Even though I was still angry about his deception, there was something deeply comforting about being looked after this way. No one had taken care of me like this since I was a child – not even Richard during our three years together. I'd always been the strong one, the independent one, the one who didn't need anyone.
Yet here was Daniel, barely knowing me for two months, treating my wellbeing as if it were the most important thing in the world. The contradiction confused me – how could someone be so dishonest about one thing, yet so genuinely caring in another?
I pushed myself up against the headboard, looking at the tray he'd brought in again—more soup, more toast. My nose wrinkled. "I'm not eating this again," I said, my voice petulant even to my own ears. "I'm sick of it."
Daniel, sitting on the edge of the bed, raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You need to eat, Claire. Keep your strength up."
"I don't want to," I shot back, crossing my arms like a child throwing a tantrum. I knew I was being ridiculous, but I didn't care. Something about his patient attention made me want to test his limits, to see how far his care would extend. "I want a sushi platter. Or at least some dark chocolate. Something that doesn't taste like hospital food."
He shook his head, his expression firm. "No raw fish. Not while you're sick. It's a risk." He stood up, crossing to the kitchen and rummaging through the cabinets. A moment later, he returned with a bar of dark chocolate, breaking off a small piece. "Here. This is as far as I'll go."
I eyed the chocolate, then him, a smirk tugging at my lips despite the ache in my body. The anger that had consumed me earlier was fading, replaced by a different kind of tension. Maybe it was the fever making me reckless, or maybe it was just the strange intimacy of being vulnerable around him, but I suddenly wanted to push this fragile truce in a different direction.
"Feed it to me," I said, my voice softer, testing him.
Daniel hesitated, his fingers pausing mid-air with the chocolate. "Claire..." he started, but I cut him off.
"Not like that," I said, leaning forward just enough to make my point, my eyes locked on his. I saw the shift in his gaze, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. Then, slowly, he brought the piece to his lips, taking it into his mouth before leaning in. His lips met mine, warm and deliberate, passing the chocolate with a slow press of his tongue. The bitter sweetness melted between us, mixing with the heat of his breath, and I couldn't help but sigh. "Tastes good," I murmured against his mouth, my voice low, teasing.
What started as feeding turned into something else entirely. The chocolate was forgotten as his lips lingered on mine, the kiss deepening, hungry. I felt his hand slide to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my damp hair, holding me close. My own hands moved to his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath his shirt, the steady thump of his heart. I swallowed the chocolate he'd passed to me, then caught his tongue with mine, teasing it back, tasting him just as much as the candy. His low groan vibrated against my lips, and I pushed a piece back to him, hearing the surprised hitch in his breath as he took it.
Daniel took over then, his grip tightening as he tilted my head, his tongue sweeping through my mouth, claiming every inch. His other hand slid under my loose shirt, rough palm skimming my skin, sending sparks through me despite my weakened state. He found my breast, cupping it heavily, kneading with a desperate edge, his fingers pinching the sensitive tip through the fabric. I gasped into his mouth, the sensation sharp and electric, my body waking up despite the exhaustion.
"Mm..." I couldn't hold back the soft moan, and just like that, he froze. His hand stilled, his lips pulling away as he pressed his forehead to mine, breathing hard. I felt the tension in him, the way he fought himself.
"I'm sorry, Claire," he rasped, his voice strained with both desire and restraint. "I keep doing this wrong. Last night was... I shouldn't have taken advantage when you were vulnerable, and here I am making the same mistake again. You're still sick, and I'm not thinking clearly around you."
I wanted to argue, to pull him back, but I didn't have the strength. Instead, I just stared at him, my chest heaving, frustrated but too tired to fight. He adjusted my shirt, his touch gentle now, and stood up, running a hand through his short hair. For a long moment, he just stood there, his back to me, shoulders rising and falling with deep breaths as he tried to regain his composure.
When he finally turned around, his face was a mask of controlled emotion. "I need some air," he said quietly, more to himself than to me. Then, seeming to remember why he was here in the first place, he added, "I'll grab a pizza on my way back." His voice was still rough, distracted, clearly affected by what had just happened between us.