Clara lay in bed, the towel on her forehead perfectly warm, the faint scent of disinfectant in the air, and the soft sounds of cooking drifting from the kitchen.
Everything felt safe.
But the safer she felt, the more a hollow ache spread through a corner of her heart.
Those days and nights of being ignored and abandoned weren't hallucinations.
This tangible warmth and care were equally real.
Clara pulled the towel down to cover her eyes, thinking, "So this is what it's like."
It was never that she asked for too much.
It was that Rhys had given far too little.
-
The bedroom door opened again, and Noah walked in carrying a white porcelain bowl.
"Just plain noodles and some side dishes."
He placed a paper towel on the nightstand and set the bowl down. "The fridge was pretty empty, but in your condition, you probably can't stomach anything rich anyway."
Clara tried to sit up, but having slept so long, her arms went weak, and she nearly fell back.
Noah caught her, propped the pillows up behind her back, and then handed her the bowl.
She didn't have much of an appetite. She felt dizzy, and her mouth tasted bitter.
But Noah sat right there, flipping through a pregnancy guide. He said Simon had left strict orders: he had to make sure she ate, or Simon would hold him accountable.
Clara ate half the bowl before she couldn't take another bite. She put down her chopsticks.
"Full?"
"Yeah, I can't eat anymore."
Noah didn't push her. He removed the bowl and returned quickly with a basin of warm water.
"Wipe yourself down. I'll be right outside. Call me if you need anything."
Clara watched him busy himself caring for her. "I'm causing you too much trouble."
Noah paused and looked at her. "Have you noticed a problem?"
"What problem?"
"You are always apologizing, terrified of being a burden."
Clara blinked. It seemed he was right.
Seeing her silence, Noah asked suddenly, "Did Rhys never take care of you?"


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