It began with a cough.
Just a soft rasp echoing from Ariana's room as she shuffled into the kitchen wearing an oversized hoodie and mismatched socks. The sleeves swallowed her arms. Her skin was paler than usual, and there were faint shadows under her eyes.
Leo looked up from his laptop.
"You look like death," he said flatly.
Ariana scowled and opened the fridge. "Morning to you too, sunshine."
Leo closed the laptop and studied her. "You're sick."
"No, I'm tired." She rubbed her temples. "And maybe a little feverish."
"You're shaking."
She waved him off. "Just didn't sleep well."
"You need to rest."
"I need coffee," she muttered, grabbing a mug.
But her hand slipped mid-pour. Hot liquid splashed across the counter, and the mug clattered to the floor.
Leo was up in an instant, his chair scraping back. "Ariana."
She stepped away, disoriented, bracing herself on the island.
"Okay," she admitted. "Maybe I'm more than a little sick."
Leo guided her to a stool, his hands careful but firm. He grabbed a towel, cleaned the mess, then disappeared for a moment before returning with a thermometer and a bottle of water.
"You carry thermometers in your office?" she croaked.
"I carry everything," he replied. "Preparation is survival."
Ariana blinked up at him, eyes glassy. "You sound like a Bond villain."
He slid the thermometer into her mouth without argument.
It beeped. He checked. "101.8. You're burning."
"I told you I was hot."
Leo gave her a dry look, but she caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Bed. Now."
She groaned but didn't resist as he led her back to her room. The sheets felt like clouds. Her head sank into the pillows.
Leo disappeared again.
When he returned, he brought ginger tea, ibuprofen, a cool cloth, and—most shocking of all—a bowl of steaming chicken soup.
"You made this?" she rasped, propped up by pillows.
"I instructed the chef," he corrected. "Same outcome."
"You could've sent Camille."
"I didn't want to."
She blinked.
Leo sat beside the bed. He folded the cloth and laid it on her forehead, his touch gentle and cool.
Ariana's throat tightened. "Why are you being nice to me?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Then, softly, "Because I can't stand seeing you in pain."
Her heart kicked in her chest.
That wasn't part of the contract.
---
The rest of the day passed in a slow blur.
Ariana drifted in and out of sleep, waking to find Leo still in the chair by her bed, working on his laptop, typing quietly, pausing occasionally to check her temperature or replace the cloth.
Once, she stirred and murmured, "You don't have to stay."
He didn't look up. "I know."
Still, he didn't leave.
---
By evening, Ariana's fever had eased to 100.3, and her cheeks had some color again.
Leo brought her a fresh mug of tea. "Drink this."
She accepted it with a small smile. "You're hovering."
He didn't deny it.
"You're not who I expected," she said quietly.
Leo leaned back, arms crossed. "Neither are you."
There was a long pause. Her room was quiet, save for the gentle hum of the city beyond the window.
"Do you always do this?" she asked.
"Do what?"
"Take care of people. Behind closed doors."
He hesitated.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I haven't let many in."
She sipped the tea. It was warm, spiced with honey and lemon.
"It's easier," he said after a moment, "to control things when people stay at arm's length."
"And I ruined that."
His eyes met hers. "You make it impossible."
Ariana chuckled softly. "That should be on my résumé."
He looked at her with something unreadable—gentle, maybe, or cautious. "You scare me," he said again, voice low.
"You already told me that."
"I still mean it."
She turned her face into the pillow, trying to ignore the way her heart reacted every time he said things like that.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
She wasn't supposed to care this much.
---
Later that night, around two in the morning, Ariana woke in a sweat. Her body ached. Her throat burned. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, dizzy and parched.
She found Leo asleep in the chair beside her.
Head tilted back. One arm crossed over his chest. The other hand resting on his lap, a pen still tucked between his fingers. His brow was creased, even in sleep.
Ariana stepped forward quietly and pulled the blanket from the edge of her bed. She draped it over him carefully, brushing back a lock of hair that had fallen onto his forehead.
He stirred slightly but didn't wake.
She watched him a moment longer, her heart twisting.
He was a ruthless businessman. A trillionaire. Cold, calculating, detached.
And yet here he was—curled beside her sickbed, refusing to leave.
She didn't understand him.
And maybe, just maybe, he didn't understand himself either.
---
By morning, she felt better.
Not great, but human again.
She made it to the kitchen unassisted and found Leo already there, scrolling through something on his phone, a protein bar in one hand and a mug in the other.
He looked up.
"You're walking."
"I'm a fighter."
He smiled slightly. "You're also stubborn."
"Part of my charm."
He motioned to the barstool. "Sit. You need to eat."
She did. Camille had left her a tray of toast, fruit, and yogurt.
"You stayed the whole night," she said after a while.
Leo didn't look at her. "You were sick."
"That's not why."
His jaw ticked. "Maybe not."
She pushed a grape around with her spoon. "You don't have to be... whatever this is."
He finally met her gaze. "Compassionate?"
"Yeah."
"Too late."
Ariana stared at him.
He was calm, unreadable—but his eyes weren't cold.
She saw it now, clear as day.
He cared.
---
The penthouse was unusually quiet that afternoon.
Leo was in back-to-back meetings in his study, and Ariana, feeling restless, roamed the halls with a sketchbook under one arm. She ended up in the solarium—her favorite part of the apartment.
Glass walls, hanging plants, filtered light. It felt more like a greenhouse than a billionaire's hideout.
She sat cross-legged on the floor, pencil in hand, and let the lines flow.
Designs for a studio. Her dream project. A combination of modern materials and warm wood, soft curves and sharp lines. She lost herself in the rhythm, in the pencil's dance.
"Looks like a sanctuary," a voice said behind her.
She jumped, then turned. Leo stood there, jacket off, tie loosened, watching her with a tired kind of fascination.
"It's a workspace," she corrected.
"It looks like you."
She blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Practical. Clean. But soft. Inviting. Like you're trying not to be, but you can't help it."
Her pulse skipped.
Leo stepped closer. "You're different here. When you draw."
"I'm me."
"You're always you," he said quietly. "But here, you're unguarded."
She looked down. "Don't analyze me."
"I'm not. I'm admiring you."
Her cheeks flushed.
"Leo..."
He stepped back slightly, as if catching himself.
"I'm not trying to break the rules," he said. "I just keep forgetting we have them."
Her throat tightened.
"Me too."
---
That night, she didn't sleep well again—not because she was sick, but because she couldn't stop thinking.
About him.
About how he watched her when he thought she wasn't looking. About how he spoke with gentleness beneath his precision. About the way he'd stayed—quietly, completely—when she needed someone.
And maybe, just maybe, about how dangerous it was to want that.
Because eventually, this arrangement would end.
And hearts weren't part of the deal.
But hers was already bending.
Maybe even breaking.
---