Chapter Nine: The Morning After

Amara woke to the soft hum of medical monitors and the faint scent of antiseptic laced with something warm—cedar, maybe, or sandalwood. Her head rested on something firm, yet strangely comforting. Not a pillow.

A chest.

Her eyes snapped open.

She was lying against Damian.

Not beside him.

On him.

His arm was wrapped around her waist, his gloved hand resting just above her hip. His other arm was beneath her, a solid, unyielding support. His chin rested lightly on the crown of her head. His breathing was deep, even—still asleep.

They were on the biometric bed in VIP Room 7 at Dr. Voss’s clinic. The same bed built for one. The same narrow space that should have made this impossible.

And yet, here they were—pressed together, tangled in the same sheet, bodies aligned as if they’d been made to fit.

She tried to move.

She couldn't.

His hold on her was gentle, but unbreakable. Every time she shifted, his arm tightened slightly, pulling her back into the curve of his body. She was practically glued to him.

Panic fluttered in her chest.

How did I get here?

The last thing she remembered was falling asleep on the sofa in the corner of the room, wrapped in a blanket Voss had provided. Damian had insisted she rest while he stayed on the bed under observation. She’d refused to leave, so she’d taken the couch.

But now?

She was here.

In his arms.

On his bed.

And he was holding her like she belonged there.

She tried to sit up again, but he stirred.

A low, sleepy sound escaped his throat—a soft, unconscious hum of contentment.

Her breath caught.

She froze.

She didn't want to wake him. He looked… peaceful. For the first time since she’d met him, the hard lines of his face were softened by sleep. The tension in his jaw had eased. Even his hands—those gloved, guarded hands—were relaxed.

And then it hit her.

He had touched her while she was asleep. And she was holding him back.

Now, in the quiet morning light filtering through the clinic’s tinted windows, the reality of it all crashed over her.

They had shared a bed.

They had held each other.

And for the first time, Damian Blackwell had slept through the night—with another human being—and his body hadn’t rejected it.

Her heart pounded.

She needed to pee. Badly.

But she couldn’t move.

She glanced toward the door.

Voss.

If she called out, he’d come. He could wake Damian. He could help her get free without making it… awkward.

But she didn’t want to scream.

She didn’t want to wake Damian like that—startled, defensive, retreating behind his walls.

So she stayed still.

And waited.

And prayed her bladder would hold.

Minutes passed.

The city outside hummed to life. A distant siren. The low hum of the air filtration system. The steady beep of Damian’s vitals monitor.

Then—movement.

His fingers twitched.

His arm shifted.

And then, slowly, his eyes opened.

They were hazy at first, clouded with sleep. Then they focused.

On her.

His breath hitched.

For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.

Then, softly, he said, “You’re still here.”

She swallowed. “I… I couldn’t move.”

His gaze dropped to where his arm was wrapped around her. He didn’t let go.

“I didn’t mean to pull you onto the bed,” he said, his voice rough with sleep. “I woke up and you were cold. Shivering. You were on the sofa. I thought… you’d be more comfortable here.”

She blinked. “And you didn’t sleep on the couch?”

He shook his head. “I tried. But you… you grabbed my arm. Wouldn’t let go. Like you were afraid I’d disappear.”

She flushed. “I don’t remember that.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “You said, ‘Don’t go.’ So I didn’t.”

Her heart skipped.

He had stayed.

Not because of his condition.

Not because of the arrangement.

But because she had asked him to.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally loosening his hold. “I should’ve known better. I should’ve respected the boundaries.”

“It’s fine,” she said quickly. “I’m not… uncomfortable.”

He searched her face. “Really?”

“Really,” she said, sitting up slowly, the sheet pooling around her waist. “You kept me warm. And… you looked like you needed the rest.”

He sat up beside her, careful to keep space between them now. But his eyes never left hers.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“For what?”

“For staying. For not running when things got… complicated.”

She smiled. “You didn’t run when I was at my worst. I’m not going to run when you’re vulnerable.”

He looked away, but not before she saw the flicker of emotion in his eyes—something raw, something human.

Then, as if on cue, her stomach growled—loud, unmistakable.

Damian turned back, one eyebrow raised.

“I’m not hungry,” she said, too fast.

Her stomach growled again.

He chuckled. “You’re terrible at lying.”

Before she could respond, the door opened.

Dr. Voss stepped in—still in his full protective suit, face shield, gloves, the works.

And froze.

His eyes scanned the scene: Amara, half-covered in a sheet, hair a mess, cheeks flushed. Damian, sitting beside her, shirtless beneath the open robe, his arm still slightly raised from where he’d been holding her.

Voss’s expression didn’t change.

But his eyes twinkled.

“Well,” he said, voice muffled by the mask. “I see the overnight observation yielded… unexpected results.”

Amara’s face burned.

“We didn’t—” she started.

“I didn’t ask,” Voss said, holding up a gloved hand. “And I don’t need to know.”

He walked to the biometric panel, checked Damian’s vitals.

“Pulse stable. Blood pressure normal. Histamine levels down. You’re healing well.”

He turned to Damian. “You slept through the night. With her in your arms. And no reaction.”

Damian nodded. “It’s… remarkable.”

“Remarkable?” Voss said, pulling off his face shield. “It’s a medical miracle. Your body didn’t just tolerate contact. It thrived. Your cortisol levels dropped. Your immune markers stabilized. You’re not just in remission, Damian. You’re improving.”

Amara’s breath caught.

Voss looked between them. “You two are… something.”

“We’re not—” Amara started again.

“I didn’t say you were,” Voss interrupted, smirking. “But I’m not blind. And I’m not stupid.”

He turned to Damian. “You can go home. But no more public events. No more galas. No more press. You push your body too hard, and it will break. You’re not cured. You’re managing.”

“I know,” Damian said.

“And you,” Voss said, turning to Amara. “Keep doing what you’re doing. Your presence is… therapeutic.”

She blushed.

Voss zipped up his suit. “I’ll have Niles bring the car around. You’re cleared to leave.”

He turned to go.

Then paused at the door.

“Oh,” he said, glancing back. “And Damian?”

“Yes?”

“You might want to… reconsider the whole ‘no touch’ policy.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Damian muttered.

“You didn’t have to,” Voss said, grinning. “Your face did.”

And with that, he left.

The door clicked shut.

Silence.

Then Amara burst out laughing.

Damian groaned, burying his face in his hands.

“She’s right, you know,” Amara said, still giggling. “You do have a tell.”

“What?” he mumbled.

“When you’re flustered. You get this little crease between your eyebrows. Like a robot trying to process emotions.”

He looked up, pretending offense. “I do not.”

“You do,” she said, reaching out—then stopping herself. “Can I…?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he took her hand and placed it on his forehead.

“Feel it?”

She traced the faint line between his brows.

And smiled.

“You’re not a robot,” she said softly. “You’re just… learning how to be human again.”

He didn’t pull away.

Instead, he turned his hand, lacing his gloved fingers with hers.

And held on.

Later, as they dressed and prepared to leave, Amara stood by the window, watching the city wake.

Damian walked up behind her, fully dressed now—black turtleneck, gloves, coat.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded. “Just… thinking.”

“About?”

“Everything,” she said. “The gala. The attack. Voss. Last night.”

He was silent.

Then: “I don’t regret it.”

She turned. “What?”

“Last night,” he said. “Holding you. Sleeping beside you. I don’t regret it. Even if it was… unprofessional.”

She smiled. “We’re not exactly a professional marriage.”

“No,” he said, his voice low. “We’re not.”

She stepped closer. “And I don’t regret it either.”

He looked at her—really looked.

And for the first time, she saw it.

Not just the billionaire.

Not just the man with a curse.

But the man who had been alone for ten years.

And who, for the first time, didn’t want to be.

“Let’s go home,” he said.

And as they walked out of the clinic, side by side, the morning sun rising behind them, Amara realized something.

She wasn’t just his cure.

And he wasn’t just her protector.

They were becoming something else.

Something neither of them had expected.

Something neither of them could name.

But it was real.

And it was growing.

One touch at a time.