LANA'S POV
The next morning, soft light slipped through the edge of the curtains, washing the hotel room in a calm, golden hue.
Caleb was still asleep, his breathing even, his fever mostly broken.
The change in his color was subtle, but enough to ease the tightness that had gripped my chest through the night.
I stood, stretching the stiffness from my shoulders, and walked quietly to the bathroom to freshen up. My reflection in the mirror looked foreign, hair tied in a lazy bun, eyes tired, but softer somehow. Like something in me had shifted.
When I returned, Caleb was stirring. His eyes fluttered open slowly, and for a moment, they just stared at me like he couldn't quite believe I was still there.
"Morning," he rasped.
"Morning," I replied, bringing over a tray with toast, soup, and a small thermos of my café's signature chamomile-ginger tea.
He looked surprised. "Did you make this?"
"I bribed the kitchen staff downstairs," I said, setting it gently in front of him. "Now eat. Doctor's orders."
He chuckled, a low, warm sound. "You're not a doctor."
"No, but I run a café. Which is basically the same thing when it comes to curing broken hearts and bad days."
He gave me a look, half amused, half something deeper.
I busied myself with refolding the blanket, anything to keep my eyes off him. But when I handed him the spoon, our fingers brushed.
And for a second, everything stilled.
My breath caught.
His eyes were on mine, steady, unreadable, but burning with something I was too afraid to name.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
I forced a smile. "Just eat before it gets cold."
He ate in silence while I moved around the room, straightening up, folding towels, organizing the scattered pill packets.
I was avoiding him, I knew. Avoiding the ache in my chest that only seemed to grow the longer I stayed near him.
When he finished, he leaned back against the headboard and watched me.
"I should probably take a shower," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "I feel like I've been hit by a truck."
I nodded. "Bathroom's clean. Towels are fresh. I'll step out while you"
"Wait," he said suddenly.
I turned.
His voice softened. "You don't have to go."
"I should," I said, throat tight. "Boundaries, remember?"
His eyes searched mine again, and the weight of everything unsaid hung thick in the air.
"I'm not trying to make this complicated," he said.
"But it already is," I whispered.
Neither of us moved for a beat. Then I stepped toward the door.
"I'll grab you fresh coffee," I said, not trusting myself to stay in that room another second.
---
When I returned twenty minutes later, he had showered and changed into a fresh shirt and sweats, looking a little more human, a little less like the fragile version I'd seen the night before.
He looked up as I walked in. "You came back."
I held up the tray. "With a peace offering."
He smiled, small, but real. "Then I'll accept."
I handed him the cup, but as he reached for it, his fingers lingered around mine. The brush of his skin was warm, familiar. My breath caught again.
"Lana…"
I stepped back slightly. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're waiting for me to fall."
He stood slowly, walking toward me with a softness that was almost unbearable.
"I'm not waiting for you to fall," he said gently. "I'm hoping you already have."
The words hit deeper than they should have. I looked away, blinking rapidly.
"I can't"
"You can," he said, stepping closer. "You just don't want to let yourself."
His hand brushed mine again, the smallest touch, but it burned.
And still, I didn't pull away.
He raised my hand slowly, pressing his lips softly against my knuckles.
"I know what this is," he said quietly. "Even if we haven't named it."
Tears pricked the edge of my eyes. "I'm scared, Caleb."
"So am I."
His forehead rested against mine, and for the first time, I didn't pull back. I let myself lean in.
Not into his arms.
But into the space between us.
The one that felt more and more like home.