28

W e lapse into a comfortable silence, and I find myself basking in the unexpected intimacy of the moment. Yet, my thoughts are consumed with concern for Bradley. The challenges he faces at work only deepen my worry. While his work is his own, I find myself drawn to hearing about it. His strength, both physical and mental, is truly admirable. In fact, it's more than that—it's compellingly attractive. My attraction to him is undeniable, almost overwhelming in its intensity.

Despite these thoughts, that same feeling from earlier hits me like a ton of bricks. The impending dread, and a bubble forms in my throat. I swallow hard, hoping the urge will pass.

Oh, no. God, please not now . But no matter how hard I try to push this feeling down, a new wave of nausea creeps up my oesophagus. Bradley seems to notice almost immediately.

"What's wrong?" he asks quickly.

I can't even respond. I leap up and dash to the bathroom, barely making it before flipping open the toilet lid and letting out the most unladylike noise as I empty the contents of my stomach, including my mum's soup. Tears start welling up from the pressure, and I feel utterly miserable. Bradley's presence looms behind me, and mortification washes over me.

"No, Brad," I say, holding up a hand to stop him, before hunching over the toilet again, spewing out more liquid. I could cry from the embarrassment of it all. "Brad—" I choke out between heaves. "Please, get out."

"No, Amelia," he says firmly, kneeling behind me.

"What are you doing?" I manage to gasp out, utterly bewildered.

"What does it look like? I'm taking care of you," he replies. And at that, my heart does somersaults.

"You don't need to take care of me." I protest weakly.

He replies quickly, without batting an eyelid. "I know, but I'm here, so you don't need to." I can't help but think that this is Bradley in the flesh .

Enthusiastic and bubbly? Rarely. Protective and caring? Always .

He is so selfless, always willing to help others in need. In a way, I see a bit of myself in those traits—always ready to lend a helping hand, always willing to nurture someone else. I take a few deep breaths, but the heat intensifies. I feel like I'm burning up. I try to take off my hoodie, but fail miserably. It gets stuck halfway over my head, squishing my face. I let out a frustrated laugh. This can't get any worse.

Bradley's hands are near mine, gripping my hoodie and pulling it off in one quick movement. The relief is immediate, but it's short-lived as he places the back of his hand on my forehead. His brows furrow, concern etched on his face. "You're burning up, Mills," he says, his voice soft yet worried.

Everything about his touch feels both intimate and not at the same time. Hearing him call me ‘Mills' sends a flutter through my chest. Amanda's the only one who calls me that, so for him to pick up on it feels strangely personal.

"This is not a good look. I'm sorry," I mumble.

He holds my gaze, his expression serious. "What have I said about apologising?" I offer a half-hearted smile, but before I can respond, he continues, "And trust me, you could make anything look good."

Well, flip me sideways. His words make my heart skip a beat. I look away, feeling shy under his steady gaze. The room seems to shrink around us. Despite literally spewing my guts out, my body still knows how to react to his touch and his words. I shiver slightly, not from cold, but from the sensation of his hand on my skin and the warmth of his presence.

Another wave of nausea hits me, and I grip the toilet, feeling disgusted with myself. Bradley quickly grabs my hair with both hands, sweeping it away from my face and holding it at the nape of my neck. My mind starts wandering—imagining his hands running through my hair in a more sensual way, his touch sending shivers down my spine for a completely different reason. The contrast between the reality of this moment and the fantasy playing out in my head is jarring.

If there was ever a time to feel even more embarrassed, it would be right about now. Yet, oddly enough, I don't feel so embarrassed anymore. No, what I'm feeling is far more intense. I feel his strong palm at my back, rubbing soothing circles, attempting to calm me.

Wiping at my face with my hands, I flush the toilet quickly—locking eyes with the most incredibly caring man, who just held my hair and rubbed circles on my back while I most likely look absolutely horrid. He's watching me, his gentle movements still ongoing, his eyes softening. I can feel mine starting to well up. Why? I haven't got a clue.

"It's okay, Mills. I'm here," he says, his voice smooth, deep, and… sexy. "I've got you." Sexy? Yeah, at this moment, it's most definitely not supposed to feel that way, but it does.

I'm here.

I've got you.

Such simple words, yet they ignite a kaleidoscope of butterflies inside.

"You should shower. It'll make you feel better," he suggests, leaning casually against the door frame, his arms crossed and biceps straining through his t-shirt.

"Is that your subtle way of telling me I reek?" I tease, grinning playfully.

He chuckles softly, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "Well, I didn't want to be the one to say it…"

"Gee, thanks," I quip, rolling my eyes with mock indignation.

He raises an eyebrow, his smirk widening. "Hey, you said it, not me."

"Mhm," I reply with a playful nod. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll go rescue my reputation from the clutches of potential stinkiness."

"Take your time," he says, his voice low and teasing. "I'll be waiting inside."

As he turns away, I feel a rush of butterflies fluttering around in my stomach. I can't help but giggle at myself inwardly.