By the time Friday evening arrived, exhaustion weighed heavily on my shoulders.
Mr. Lu pulled up to the grand entrance of the Huang mansion. After thanking him, I stepped out into the crisp air and walked inside, slipping off my shoes and hanging my coat neatly in the hall closet. As I made my way down the corridor toward the kitchen, a shadow caught my eye. I paused at the entrance of the living room.
Harley was lying on the long, three-seater couch, one arm draped heavily over his face as if trying to block out the rest of the world.
My purse slipped from my fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud. I hurried over, dropping to my knees beside the couch. Up close, his breathing sounded rough and much heavier than usual.
"Harley, are you okay?"
"Go away."
My lips pressed together in a tight line. "No. Now tell me what's wrong."
"Sophie."
The way he said my name—low, firm, and painfully final—told me he was done with the conversation. A hard boundary had been drawn.
When had he gotten so incredibly stubborn? Fine. Two could play that game.
I stood slowly and walked out of the living room, but the uneasy, twisting weight in my chest refused to settle. I went straight to the kitchen and began preparing his favorite soup—the rich, savory one he always asked for whenever he wasn't feeling well. I poured a glass of ice water and placed two painkillers on a small wooden tray before carrying everything back to the living room.
He hadn't moved an inch.
I set the tray down quietly on the coffee table and leaned over, gently placing my palm against his forehead. Searing heat met my skin instantly.
"You're running a fever," I murmured.
It wasn't surprising at all. He had always been a relentless workaholic, the kind of man who forgot to eat, sleep, or even breathe when his job demanded his attention.
His eyes fluttered open slowly. Pure irritation flickered through his hazy blue gaze before he aggressively pushed my hand away and forced himself upright.
"I said leave me alone."
No.
"You're sick," I insisted, taking a step closer.
"I don't need you."
Yes, you do. If I didn't take care of you, who would?
His words were sharp and deliberately cruel. He stood abruptly, his tall frame swaying for just a fraction of a second before he brushed past me, completely ignoring the tray of food and medicine. Typical. Even burning with a fever, he refused to give me the smallest courtesy.
My chest tightened as I watched him walk toward the stairs. His shoulders were rigidly tense, his pride entirely intact even while illness ravaged him.
Without thinking, I followed.
He reached his bedroom and pushed the heavy door open. I stepped inside just before he could swing it shut.
"Harley, stop being stubborn," I snapped, my deep frustration finally slipping through the ache in my chest. "You're clearly not okay."
He turned sharply, his hand shooting out to grab my wrist.
For a breathless second, we stood far too close. His grip wasn't painful, but it was unyieldingly firm. I could feel the unnatural heat radiating from his skin and see the faint, glistening sheen of sweat near his temples.
Then, he stepped forward, using his momentum to force me back. My knees hit the edge of the mattress, and before I could react, my back hit the bed.
He hovered over me, one arm braced heavily on the mattress beside my head, his other hand still wrapped tightly around my wrist. His eyes were dark, cold, and dangerous—but underneath that terrifying control, I could see the severe physical strain it was costing him.
"I could take you right here, right now, you know."
His voice was dangerously low and measured, meant to intimidate me. Meant to scare me away.
I looked up at him steadily. Even with my heart hammering violently against my ribs, there was no real fear.
"No, you won't," I said softly, turning my face slightly to hold his intense gaze. "The Harley I know is very considerate."
His jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek. Something volatile flickered across his expression—conflict, restraint, and a desperate emotion he vehemently refused to let surface.
He released me abruptly. Stepping back, he sank onto the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands, his elbows resting heavily on his knees.
"Get out of my room. Now."
I sat up slowly, smoothing the wrinkles from my clothes. "You should at least take the medicine," I said quietly.
He didn't answer.
I stepped out into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind me. Seconds later, something violently shattered inside the room.
The sharp, explosive sound of breaking glass echoed down the quiet hallway. I froze, my fingers curling into tight fists at my sides. Every instinct in my body screamed at me to turn back, to rush in and check on him, but I forced my feet to remain planted where they were.
He needed space. Even if giving it to him hurt me.
That night, sleep wouldn't come easily.
When a rough, painful cough echoed faintly down the hallway, I stared at my dark ceiling for a long moment before pushing my blankets aside.
I padded quietly down the hall. His bedroom door was still slightly ajar.
I slipped inside without a sound. He was still fully dressed, lying rigidly on top of the covers. One arm was thrown heavily over his eyes, as if even in the vulnerability of sleep, he refused to accept any comfort.
I stepped closer, holding my breath, and pressed the back of my hand to his forehead again.
Still burning warm.
Moving carefully, I unlaced and removed his shoes, then gently coaxed his arms out of his suit jacket. His movements were sluggish, his feverish body too utterly exhausted to resist me, even unconsciously. I pulled the heavy duvet over his broad shoulders and placed a cool, damp cloth against his forehead.
He stirred slightly at the sudden temperature change, but didn't wake.
Instead of leaving, I dragged the small armchair from the corner of the room and sat directly beside his bed. The massive room was entirely quiet, save for the steady, raspy rhythm of his breathing.
There was a time when he would have immediately leaned into my touch instead of violently pushing it away. A time when caring for him didn't feel like navigating a minefield or crossing a forbidden boundary.
Will we ever be like that again? I wasn't sure how much hope we truly had left.
My fingers hovered tentatively near his resting hand before I forced myself to retreat. I wasn't sure exactly when things between us had become this painfully fragile.
Morning light slowly filtered through the sheer curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. The sudden shifting of the mattress pulled me from a light doze.
He was awake. And he was watching me.
"You had a fever," I said quietly, straightening up in the chair and brushing my hair out of my face.
He pushed himself up slowly, his jaw instantly tightening. "I told you to leave me alone."
"You were sick."
His piercing gaze moved around the room, taking in the neatly folded jacket on the chair, the empty water glass on the nightstand, and the damp cloth resting in a small bowl. A subtle, unreadable flicker passed through his eyes before he looked away, staring firmly at the wall.
"You didn't have to stay."
"I know."
The silence that followed felt infinitely heavier than the words themselves. I stood up, smoothing my clothes, and walked toward the door, steadying my breathing for the inevitable rejection.
"...Thank you."
I stopped. His voice was low, incredibly reluctant, and rough with sleep. He still wasn't looking at me.
My fingers tightened slightly around the cool metal of the door handle before I answered softly, "You're welcome."
I stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind me.
The massive house felt unusually quiet. It wasn't forgiveness. It certainly wasn't warmth. But it wasn't total indifference either—and for now, that tiny, fragile crack in the immense distance between us was enough.