Aidi woke to the soft hum of voices just outside the door. Her body still ached, but the fever had broken, leaving her feeling slightly more lucid. She blinked at the soft glow of sunlight spilling through the windows, warming the edges of the room.
She hated how comfortable it was. The bed was too soft, the sheets too clean. Everything about this place reminded her that it wasn't hers—and that she didn't want to be here.
Voices drifted into the room again, clearer this time. She recognized Hetri's clipped tone, as if he were scolding someone.
"I don't care what you think," he was saying. "She stays until she's strong enough to leave. That's final."
Another voice—likely the doctor—responded, muffled and hesitant. Aidi couldn't make out the words, but the conversation was clearly tense. Hetri's boots clicked against the floor moments later, and she braced herself as the door swung open.
"You're awake," he said, his tone neutral.
Aidi didn't respond, turning her head toward the window. She could hear birds chirping faintly in the distance, their songs carried by a gentle breeze that filtered through the slightly cracked window. The faint scent of rain still lingered in the air.
"I brought you something," Hetri continued, setting a small tray on the bedside table. It held a bowl of soup, steam curling lazily from its surface.
"I'm not hungry," Aidi muttered, refusing to look at him.
"You haven't eaten properly in days," Hetri countered, his voice firm but not unkind. "You don't have to like me, but you do have to take care of yourself."
Aidi's jaw tightened. "Why do you care?" she snapped, finally meeting his gaze. "You're the reason I ended up like this in the first place."
Hetri sighed, his expression unreadable. "You've made that clear. Repeatedly." He pulled up a chair and sat down, crossing his arms. "But I'm not leaving until you eat something."
She glared at him, her eyes narrowing. "You can't force me."
Hetri leaned back, his lips quirking into the faintest smirk. "Oh, I'm not forcing you. I'm just really annoying when I don't get my way."
The audacity of his response caught her off guard, and for a moment, she didn't know how to reply. She settled for crossing her arms and staring pointedly out the window again.
The silence between them stretched, punctuated only by the distant rustling of leaves outside. Aidi hated how her stomach twisted—not with hunger, but with confusion. She didn't understand him. One moment he was cold and unyielding, the next he was...this.
"Why don't you just admit it?" she said finally, breaking the silence.
Hetri raised an eyebrow. "Admit what?"
"That you feel guilty," she shot back, her voice sharp. "You think that by playing the hero now, you can erase what you did."
For the first time, Hetri looked genuinely taken aback. His smirk disappeared, replaced by a flicker of something she couldn't quite place.
"I don't think I can erase anything," he said quietly. "But that doesn't mean I won't try to fix it."
Aidi let out a bitter laugh. "Fix it? You can't fix what you broke."
"I know," Hetri admitted, his voice low. "But that doesn't mean I'm going to stop trying."
His words hung in the air, heavy and unexpected. Aidi didn't know what to say, so she said nothing.
Hetri stood after a moment, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. "I'll leave you to your brooding, then," he said lightly, though his tone lacked its usual edge. "But you're eating that soup. Whether you like it or not."
He left the room without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.
---
As the day wore on, Hetri found himself pacing in his study, a glass of whiskey untouched on the desk. He'd never been one to dwell on his emotions, but Aidi had a way of making him question everything.
He hated how much space she took up in his mind. She was stubborn, infuriating, and ungrateful—and yet he couldn't stop himself from wanting to be near her.
"Liking her is going to be a problem," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair.
But it was too late. He knew it the moment he saw her collapsed in that cell. Something had shifted, and no amount of denial would change that.
---
That evening, Hetri returned to Aidi's room with a book in hand. He didn't bother asking for permission as he sat in the chair by her bed.
"What are you doing?" Aidi asked, her voice dripping with suspicion.
"Reading," Hetri replied, flipping open the book.
"Why?"
"Because I can," he said simply, not looking up.
Aidi huffed but didn't press the issue. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, her annoyance mingling with curiosity.
The sound of his voice filled the room as he began to read aloud. His tone was steady, his words measured, and despite herself, Aidi found the rhythm of his voice soothing.
She hated him. She hated everything he stood for. But in that moment, as the wind rustled the trees outside and the distant hum of night settled over the house, she couldn't deny that his presence made the loneliness just a little more bearable.
And she hated that most of all.