Page 54 of His to Protect
I didn't know anymore.
Riven
I'm fine. Be home soon.
I closed my laptop, gathered my things, and drove home through streets that felt emptier than usual. The elevator ride up felt longer than usual, each floor ticking past like a countdown to something I wasn't ready for.
I heard their laughter as soon as the doors opened. Emma's bright and loud. Mireya's quieter but genuine.
I stepped out and followed the sound to the kitchen. They were both covered in flour, white powder dusting their hair and clothes.
"I told you not to open the mixer while it was running!" Emma complained.
"I didn't know it would explode like that!" Mireya tried wiping flour off her face but just smeared it worse.
They both dissolved into laughter again.
Something in my chest loosened watching them. Emma looked so alive and healthy. Her face had color. Her eyes were bright. And she moved without hesitation. Without that careful slowness she had when she was sick.
"Riven!" Emma spotted me. "Perfect timing. We just ordered pizza. After we completely destroyed the kitchen attempting homemade bread."
I leaned against the wall. "I can see that."
"Want to help clean up?" Mireya asked. She had flour in her hair. On her nose. All over her shirt.
But she looked genuinely happy. When was the last time I'd seen her look that unguarded?
"I'm good," I said. "You two seem to have it under control."
"We absolutely don't have it under control," Emma said cheerfully. "But we're having fun anyway."
I left before either of them could say anything else and went to my study. I sat at my desk and tried to stop my hands from shaking.
This was what I'd be losing.
These moments. The laughter. The way Emma came alive around Mireya. And the way my apartment felt different when she was in it.
The wayIfelt different.
I'd been functioning for three years. Going through motions. Work. Emma. Sleep. Repeat.
Then Mireya happened and somehow everything had started changing. I started looking forward to mornings and to the coffee before my run. I anticipated coming home, knowing someone would be there.
I'd started noticing things I had no business noticing. Like how she tucked hair behind her ear when concentrating, or how she bit her lower lip when worried. How her eyes lit up when Emma made her laugh.
I'd memorized details about someone who was supposed to be temporary.
August's business card sat at the corner of my desk, bearing his private hospital’s crest and contact information.
Mireya must have left it there. Accidentally or deliberately, I didn't know.
I picked it up, turning it over in my hands.
This was her future. Real opportunity. Stability. Career advancement.
And I had absolutely no right to ask her not to take it.
August could offer her everything I couldn't—a genuine career trajectory, financial security, a future that didn't depend on temporary arrangements born from desperation.
