The penthouse was quiet, bathed in the soft gray light of a late morning cloud cover. Nicholas had stepped out to take a call in his office, the door closed behind him with a gentle click, leaving Ella alone in the spacious, sun-drenched kitchen.
She stood at the marble island, barefoot, wearing one of his button-down shirts over her camisole and shorts — the sleeves too long, the hem brushing her thighs. Her wrist twinged when she moved it too fast, and the dull ache in her ribs reminded her she should be resting. But something else tugged at her more.
She wanted to do something for him.
Not out of obligation. Not because he asked — he never would. But because, since the accident, Nicholas had poured so much of himself into making sure she was okay. The sleepless nights. The quiet way he helped her sit up, the gentleness with which he bathed her, cradled her when she cried. She wanted to give something back. Something soft. Something hers.
