Unmatched Wife: Not His To Claim Anymore novel Chapter 43

Chapter 43

Chapter 43.

BIANCA

It had been a week since Rivera brought me to his home, and for the first time since waking up in that hospital bed, I felt almost human again.

The dizziness had faded to occasional lightheadedness. The nausea had subsided enough that I could eat without feeling like I might immediately lose it. And most importantly, I could navigate the stairs without gripping the railing like my life depended on it.

Progress.

I made my way downstairs slowly, still cautious of pushing myself too hard, and paused at the entrance to the kitchen when I heard soft humming.

Louis stood at the counter on a step stool, his small tongue poking out in concentration as he carefully arranged strawberries on top of what appeared to be pancakes. His movements were precise, deliberate, like he was creating a masterpiece rather than just breakfast.

“There,” he said to himself, adjusting one strawberry slightly to the left. “Perfect.”

I must have made a sound because his head snapped up, and his face split into the brightest smile I’d seen all week.

“Dr. Bianca! You’re up!” He hopped down from the stool with the kind of reckless energy only children possessed. “Look what I made for you! Dad helped, but I did the strawberries all by myself. See? I made them into a smiley face!”

I moved closer and saw that he had indeed arranged the strawberries into a cheerful face–two for eyes, a curved line for a smile.

“Louis, this is beautiful.” My voice came out rougher than intended, emotion catching in my throat. “You did this for me?”

“Of course! Dad says you need good food to get better, and strawberries are good food because they have vitamins and stuff. Do you like it?”

“I love it.” I reached out and ruffled his hair, fighting back the wave of affection that threatened to overwhelm me. “Thank you, sweetheart. This is the nicest thing anyone’s done for me in a long time.”

His grin somehow got even wider. “Wait till you taste them! Dad makes the best pancakes. They’re fluffy and-

The door to what I’d discovered was an attached gym opened, cutting off Louis’s enthusiastic description.

Rivera emerged, and my brain temporarily stopped functioning.

He was shirtless, his skin glistening with sweat from what must have been an intense workout. His muscles were defined in ways that suggested dedication–not the bulky, artificial look of someone who lived in a gym, but the lean, powerful build of someone who trained for function as much as form.

A towel hung around his neck, and as he used it to wipe sweat from his face, I found myself tracking the movement of his shoulders, the way his abdomen contracted with each breath, the subtle shift of muscle under skin.

Just appreciating beauty, I told myself firmly. Like admiring a sculpture or a painting. Nothing more.

But my body didn’t seem to have received that memo, because my heart was beating faster and my skin felt warm in a way that had nothing to do with magical exhaustion.

“Good morning.” Rivera’s voice was slightly rough, probably from exertion. His eyes met mine, and something flickered in their depths–awareness, maybe, or recognition of my staring. “You’re up early. How are you feeling?”

“Better.” I forced myself to look away, to focus on Louis instead of the ridiculous display of masculinity that was apparently

Chapter 43

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Rivera’s default state. “Much better, actually. I think I’m finally turning a corner.”

“That’s good to hear.” He moved to the coffee maker, and I determinedly did not watch the muscles in his back shift as he reached for a mug. “But don’t push yourself too hard. Dr. Palmer said at least two weeks of rest, and it’s only been one.”

“I’m a doctor too, remember? I know my own limits.”

“Do you?” He turned to face me, one eyebrow raised. “Because from what I’ve seen, you’re the type to ignore warning signs and push through until you collapse. Sound familiar?”

It did, actually. Too familiar. I’d done exactly that at the hospital more times than I could count.

“I’ll be careful,” I said instead of admitting he was right.

Louis, apparently sensing that the adults were about to have a boring conversation, tugged on my hand. “Come sit down! The pancakes are getting cold, and cold pancakes aren’t as good even if they do have smiley faces.”

I let him guide me to the kitchen table, where he’d set out plates and utensils with the kind of care that suggested Rivera had taught him proper table manners. The pancakes were indeed fluffy, perfectly golden, and the strawberries added a sweetness that made the whole thing feel special rather than just functional.

Rivera joined us after disappearing briefly to grab a shirt–which was both disappointing and a relief for my peace of mind. He’d also brought a bottle of the essence stabilizers Dr. Palmer had prescribed, setting them beside my plate without comment.

“You’re supposed to take those with food,” he said when I raised an eyebrow at him.

“I know. I was going to-”

“Sure you were.” But he was smiling slightly, that subtle quirk of his lips that I’d learned meant he was amused rather than annoyed.

We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, Louis chattering about a cartoon he’d watched yesterday and whether I thought superheroes were real.

“I think heroes are real,” I said carefully. “But maybe not the flying, laser–vision kind. More like people who help others when they don’t have to, who do the right thing even when it’s hard.”

“Like you!” Louis announced. “You helped me when I was sick. That makes you a hero.”

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