His eyes fluttered open, the faintest shadow of relief in them. “Brinley… you came.” The words rasped from his throat, fragile as smoke.

He tried to lift a hand toward her face, but the effort collapsed halfway, his arm falling weakly beside him.

Something in Brinley’s chest twisted at the sight. She whirled on Miguel, eyes blazing. “What are you standing there for? Get the car—we’re taking him to the hospital now!”

Miguel snapped to attention, barely managing a “Yes,” before Austin’s weak voice cut through. “No… there’s no need for a hospital. I’ll be fine after a little rest. Don’t blame Miguel. This isn’t his fault.”

Brinley’s breath caught, torn between fury and frustration. “You’re still defending him?”

She pressed her palm to his forehead—cool, with no fever. Relief washed over her anyway.

“Austin, you’re an adult. When you’re sick, you go to the hospital. You don’t get to play tough and endure it,” she insisted.

As she scolded him, she gently propped him up to sit upright.

Austin leaned against her shoulder, his breaths shallow. “I don’t want a hospital,” he murmured. “I just want you here with me.”

A beat passed before he added with a soft sigh, “You’ve ignored my calls these past few days. I missed you.”

Brinley felt her heart stutter. The anger she’d been holding thinned like smoke.

Only then did she remember the curt replies to his messages, and the calls she had brushed aside after only a glimpse at the caller ID. Guilt pinched at her chest.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her tone softening. “I neglected you, but I’m here now. Your stomach’s hurting—you need treatment, Austin. Don’t be stubborn.”

Austin didn’t answer. Instead, he burrowed closer, curling into her like a wounded puppy desperate for warmth.

Miguel, forgotten off to the side, shrank back, trying to make himself invisible.

Watching Austin melt into Brinley’s arms, Miguel realized with a stab of clarity that he should leave so the couple could have some privacy.

Yet Brinley’s sharp glare from earlier lingered, cold enough to send a shiver down his spine.

Brinley guided Austin upright on the sofa, poured a glass of water, and pressed it into his hands. He drank obediently, his pallor seeming to ease. Only then did she let her shoulders loosen, just a little.

But as she watched him gulp down the glass, something felt off.

She knew his condition. When the stomach attacks hit, he broke into cold sweats—sometimes he even fainted.

How could he still have the strength to talk to her like this?

Her suspicion sharpened. And then, just as he lowered the empty glass, she caught it—a fleeting curl at his lips. So quick it might have been imagined, but she saw it.

Her pulse jumped. Eyes narrowing, she fixed him with a hard stare. “Austin, tell me the truth. Are you really in as much pain as you say?”

Austin’s eyes flickered, the mask slipping for just a heartbeat. Then, with practiced softness, he replied, “Seeing you makes the pain disappear.”

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