Fake Date, Real Fate
Chapter 155: Sincere Enough for You?[II]

Chapter 155: Sincere Enough for You?[II]

I stared at him, my heart doing a frantic, unsteady tap dance against my ribs. The ultimatum hung in the air, glittering and sharp. My mind raced, trying to find a witty retort, a clever deflection, anything to regain the upper hand. But my body was a traitor, a flush of heat creeping up my neck that had nothing to do with a fever and everything to do with the image his words painted in my mind.

"I... am perfectly capable of bathing myself," I finally managed, my voice sounding far steadier than I felt.

A low chuckle vibrated in his chest, a sound of pure triumph. "As you wish, princess." His eyes were dancing, alight with amusement and something deeper, something fiercely possessive. He still hadn’t let go of my hand.

"Then let go of my hand, you giant sap," I grumbled, though my voice lacked any real bite.

He squeezed it once, a firm, comforting pressure, before finally releasing me. "Ready?"

I nodded, I swung my legs over the side of the bed, a defiant act that my body immediately protested. The world tilted violently. The gentle whirr of the machines suddenly sounded like a jet engine in my ears, and the cool floor seemed miles away. A wave of dizziness washed over me, so potent it stole my breath. My muscles, wrung out and exhausted, trembled under the simple strain of holding me upright.

I swayed.

Before I could even process the fall, Adrien was there. He moved with a liquid grace that defied his exhausted state, closing the distance in a single step. He didn’t grab or lurch; he simply enveloped me. One strong arm wrapped around my waist, pulling my back against his solid chest, while his other hand steadied my shoulder. I was suddenly anchored, held firm against the spinning room.

"I’ve got it," I mumbled into the fabric of his crumpled shirt, the words a lie even to my own ears.

"I know," he murmured back, his voice a low rumble against my ear. His breath was warm, smelling faintly of coffee and sleeplessness. He didn’t mock me. He didn’t say ’I told you so.’ He just held me until the world stopped tilting on its axis.

When I felt steady enough to stand, he shifted his grip, sliding one arm fully under my knees and the other around my back.

A startled gasp escaped my lips. "Adrien! Put me down. I’m not an invalid." My protest sounded weak even to my own ears, lost against the solid wall of his chest.

"No," he said, his voice a low rumble near my ear. He started walking toward the adjoining door I hadn’t even noticed before. "You’re my priority. And my priority isn’t going to fall and crack her head open on my watch."

That word, priority, rang in my chest like a bell.

I barely had time to form another protest before he adjusted me in his arms—like I weighed nothing. One arm cradled under my knees, the other supporting my back with infuriating ease. But what stunned me wasn’t just the way he held me. It was how he moved.

With one glance at the IV pole, Adrien reached out and grabbed it with his free hand—casual, practiced. Like it was just another extension of the plan he hadn’t told me about. The wheels of the drip stand rattled slightly as he maneuvered it forward beside us, never once jostling the line that ran from my arm.

"Adrien—wait, the line—" I started.

"I see it," he said calmly, guiding the pole with one hand while carrying me with the other. "I’ve got you. And I’ve got this."

Of course he did.

Of course the six-foot-something embodiment of control could carry me and escort my medical equipment across the room like he was born doing it.

The door he approached wasn’t the standard institutional white. It was a heavy, rich mahogany, seamlessly blended into the wall, a testament to the ’VIP’ status of a room only a man like him could secure. He pushed it open with his shoulder, still carrying me effortlessly, the IV pole gliding obediently at his side.

My jaw went slack. This wasn’t a hospital bathroom. It was a private spa. A large, claw-footed tub gleamed in the center of the room that looked deep enough to drown in. Beyond it, a walk-in shower with multiple showerheads shimmered behind a pane of frosted glass. Soft, recessed lighting illuminated thick, plush towels stacked on a heated rack, and the air was subtly scented with something clean and comforting, definitely not antiseptic.

"You have a private antechamber for bathing?" I whispered, utterly bewildered.

"Naturally," he replied, his gaze fixed on a path toward the tub. He didn’t even glance at the beautiful surroundings, as if this level of excess was simply baseline. "You think I’d let you use a communal ward shower?"

My usual retort died on my tongue. He lowered me, carefully, gently, so that my feet touched the cool, smooth tile beside the grand tub. He didn’t let go immediately, keeping one arm around my waist, his eyes scanning my face for any sign of renewed dizziness. The tub was already filled, steam rising gently, and the scent that now permeated the air was lavender and something vaguely woody.

"You... you drew me a bath?" I asked, my voice thin.

"It’s not exactly a Herculean effort with a full staff at my disposal," he said, though the faint blush on his cheekbones betrayed his feigned nonchalance.

He carefully disconnected the IV line from the pole, placing the bag on a small table beside the tub. Then he knelt in front of me, his movements precise, and began to unwrap the bandage around the IV catheter in my arm.

"What are you doing?" I asked, my voice a little breathless.

"Making you waterproof," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

He pulled a clear, adhesive plastic sleeve from a small bag on the counter I hadn’t even seen him grab. He worked with a quiet, focused intensity, his bruised knuckles a stark contrast to the delicate task. His touch was clinical yet careful, his fingers avoiding the tender skin around the needle.

He finished, smoothing the last edge of the plastic down. "There." He looked up, his gaze meeting mine.

"I still think I can manage," I tried, but my voice wavered, and my gaze drifted involuntarily to the inviting warmth of the water.

He arched a brow, a ghost of his usual smirk playing on his lips. "You swayed like a sapling in a hurricane getting out of bed. Let’s not push our luck, Isabella."

And for the first time since waking, since experiencing the dizzying sensation of almost dying, I didn’t fight him. The fight had drained out of me, replaced by a profound weariness. I just nodded, a small, almost imperceptible dip of my head.

Adrien took it as his cue. He carefully pulled back the top layer of my hospital gown, a faint frown creasing his brow at the sight of the thin fabric. "This will have to go."

My cheeks flushed, but I didn’t protest. He helped me carefully slide out of the flimsy gown, his touch impersonal yet utterly steady. Then, with an ease that belied the awkwardness of the situation, he guided me into the waiting water.

The warmth enveloped me, a blissful embrace after days of antiseptic chill. A sigh escaped me, profound and involuntary. It was like shedding a skin, the hospital smell, the lingering fear, the pain.

Adrien remained kneeling beside the tub, his sleeves rolled up, revealing the corded muscle of his forearms. He picked up a large, soft sponge, already lathered with fragrant soap. He didn’t immediately start scrubbing. Instead, he dipped it gently into the water, then slowly, carefully, began to clean my arm, the one with the IV line. His movements were slow, deliberate, the concentration on his face intense.

I watched him, mesmerized by the way he moved—so steady, so in control, like he was doing this every day.

The warm water lapped gently around me, its soothing embrace making the world outside feel distant and unreal. Adrien’s focus was entirely on me, on the task at hand, and I couldn’t help but feel a wave of affection wash over me in response to his devotion.

He worked in silence, his hands gentle as they moved over my skin, cleaning the area around the IV site with meticulous care. The sponge brushed softly against me, sending a shiver of warmth through my body, but not from the water. No, that was something entirely different.

"You’re quiet," he murmured, his voice almost tender, the low timbre of it vibrating through the air between us.

I blinked, the steam blurring his features into a soft-focus portrait of devotion. "Just... thinking," I finally answered, my voice a soft murmur. "About how this isn’t exactly the first time you’ve played nurse."

A slow, knowing smile touched his lips, crinkling the corners of his tired eyes. "I seem to recall the circumstances of the last time being vastly different." He rinsed the sponge and moved with the same deliberate care to my shoulder, his touch sending a fresh wave of heat through me that had nothing to do with the water temperature. "You had considerably more energy then."

"And you had considerably fewer clothes on," I countered, a ghost of my old spark returning.

His chuckle was a low, intimate sound. "A factual observation." He trailed the sponge down my back, his knuckles brushing against my spine. I leaned into the touch, a weary sigh escaping my lips. The tension I hadn’t even realized I was holding in my shoulders began to melt away under his steady hand.