When he finally sees Mae, it's at dinner time. Her hair falls in damp waves and she appears remarkably lucid as she moves through their kitchen. The pendant lights cast a soft glow over the marble countertops, highlighting water droplets that still cling to the ends of her hair. When she catches sight of him, her lips press together like she's suppressing something highly amusing. "How're you feeling?"
He grunts, the sound echoing off the imported Italian tiles.
"Normal then," she quips, moving to assemble her dinner since Matilda and the staff cleared out at six—standard protocol unless specifically required. The house feels empty without their quiet presence, but Eli usually prefers it this way. Mae loads her plate with an impressive portion of spaghetti before settling across from him at their absurdly long dining table.
Something about her easy demeanor sets his teeth on edge. He sat here, mind churning with mortifying possibilities of what his fever-addled brain might have revealed, while she contentedly stuffing her face, Kindle propped against the crystal water pitcher as though this were any other evening. Which, he supposes with growing irritation, it technically is—he too has his laptop stationed beside his barely-touched plate, their usual silent dinner arrangement running like clockwork. But tonight, the routine feels like sandpaper against his nerves.
He clears his throat.
Mae's eyes remain fixed on her screen.
He tries again, more forcefully this time.
Without looking up, she slides her water glass across the polished surface, the movement automatic.
The third attempt finally draws her attention. "Are you still ill?" she asks.
"I'm not," he snaps, the words coming out more defensive than intended.
"Right," she drawls, clearly unconvinced, before returning to her meal.
His fingers tap an agitated rhythm against the table. "Look," he starts, already questioning his life choices, "I'm not sure what the hell I did, or said when I wasn't coherent—"
"It's fine. You don't need to explain yourself." There's something lurking behind those eyes that sets off warning bells in his head.
He opens his mouth, then closes it, realizing he hasn't the foggiest idea what he actually wants to say. So naturally, because he's apparently determined to make an absolute cock-up of this entire situation, he asks, "Why'd you do it? Play nursemaid?"
"Play nursemaid?" One perfect eyebrow arches upward, and there's something decidedly calculating in her expression now. Like a cat that's finally cornered its prey. "Eli, you don't want to go down this rabbit hole."
"I don't?" The words come out as a challenge, his rational mind screaming at him to abort this entire conversation.
"You don't," she confirms with a smile so sweet it could rot teeth.
The tension coils in his shoulders as he settles for glaring at her across their dinnerware. Mae, infuriatingly, seems content to ignore his mounting frustration in favor of twirling perfect spirals of spaghetti around her fork. The whole situation needles at him like an itch he can't quite reach. Her smugness—or perhaps it's genuine nonchalance, who can bloody tell with her?—only amplifies his discomfort.
The silence stretches between them, broken only by the gentle clink of her fork against fine china and the soft whir of his laptop fan. His mind races through possibilities of what might have transpired during his illness, each scenario more mortifying than the last. Did he reveal something compromising? Make a fool of himself? The uncertainty eats at him like acid.
"I could tell you, if you're that curious." She doesn't bother looking up from her Kindle.
The casual delivery of the statement is a masterclass in psychological warfare. Despite his irritation, he feels an absurd spark of pride at her technique. "Enjoying this, aren't you?"
"You're the one making it a big deal. I haven't said a word, have I?"
"Taking the moral high ground now? Please. You're practically glowing with satisfaction."
Mae tilts her head slightly, expression innocent as a cherub's. "I have a video, if you're so desperate to know."
His mind goes utterly blank at the sheer audacity. Years of negotiations, takeovers, and boardroom battles, and he's completely blindsided by this five-foot-nothing artist with a mobile phone. "Delete it this instant!"
"You don't want to see it first?"
"Mae, I will burn your bloody mobile." He lunges across the table, scattering cutlery, but she's already dancing away from his grasp with staggering agility for a troglodyte who rarely leaves the mansion, let alone exercises.
His barely-touched dinner lies forgotten as he rounds the table. Mae bolts toward the living room, her bare feet silent against the floors unlike his socked feet which slip slightly on the polished surface. Their "no shoes in the house" rule, which drives his mother mental, suddenly seems like an error on his part.
"Just to let you know," Mae calls over her shoulder as she vaults over a leather ottoman, "you can burn my phone, but I have it backed up." She pauses just long enough to give him a look that's entirely too pleased with itself. "But I'd rather you didn't destroy my mobile over your aversion to showing basic human weakness—which, by the way, is quite normal, even if you don't think so."
She dashes around the L-shaped settee, lobbing scatter cushions in her wake. He dodges each soft missile, weaving through a growing obstacle course of strewn pillows, "I don't need lectures about healthy behavior from someone who suppresses emotions like it's an Olympic sport!"
The words hit their mark, and he can tell because she grabs one of his mother's gifts, a prized vase from the side table and hurls it at him.
"Oops," she offers, not sounding remotely apologetic as he barely manages to dodge it.
It crashes somewhere behind him, adding to the growing evidence of their altercation. She takes advantage of his momentary distraction to bolt down the hallway. Their pursuit leaves chaos in its wake—a toppled umbrella stand, scattered magazines from the console table, his grandfather's antique barometer hanging askew after Mae uses it to propel herself around a corner.
"This is hardly mundane!" he shouts as she wrenches open the garden door. "Photographing someone while they're incapacitated? I could have you in court for this!"
Mae bursts into the garden, unconcerned about her bare feet on the stone path. The setting sun paints everything in shades of gold and amber, catching in her wild hair as she runs. Then she laughs. Not her usual controlled chuckle or that irritating fake titter she uses. This is pure, unbridled joy, head thrown back, completely unselfconscious.
The sound stops him dead in his tracks.
The evening light transforms her into something almost ethereal—her hair a riot of mahogany and copper, eyes bright with mischief, cheeks flushed from exertion. Time seems to slow, his pulse thundering in his ears as he registers details like how the there's a slight dimple in her left cheek when she truly smiles, the way her nose crinkles just before she laughs, how her entire face lights up when she drops the mask of polite indifference.
Something shifts in his chest—a tectonic movement of emotions he can't (won't) name. For a moment, he wonders if the fever's returning because surely that's the only explanation for this lightheadedness, this strange catching sensation in his ribcage.
The feeling terrifies him enough to spur him back into action. He launches into pursuit with renewed vigor, as though he can outrun whatever the hell just happened. Mae's quick despite her usual sedentary lifestyle, weaving between the manicured topiaries his mother insists upon.
She's quick for someone who spends most of her time holed up in the mansion, but he runs marathons, maintains a punishing fitness regimen. This should be child's play. He's gaining on her as she bends toward the turn that leads to the mansion gates, the gap between them narrowing with each stride.
The gates swinging open, chrome glinting in the dying light. Mae, still focused on escape, runs directly into the car's path.
"God, Eli, can't you just let this go?" she calls over her shoulder, completely oblivious to the danger.
The car horn blares.
His heart stops.
His body moves before his mind can process the danger. He lunges forward, catching her arm and yanking her against his chest as they tumble on the lawn. His heart hammers against his ribs with such force he can barely hear the commotion erupting around them over the rush of blood in his ears.
The grass is cool against his back, the evening air thick with the scent of freshly cut lawn and Mae's vanilla shampoo. His arms tighten reflexively around her, as though he could somehow retroactively protect her from what almost happened.
"My phone," Mae gasps, squirming in his iron grip.
"Dear God, Eli, Mae, are you both alright?" His mother's voice echoed, the pitch higher than usual.
"Theron, call the doctor!"
"What the bloody hell were you two playing at?"
"Not the time, Theo."
The voices swirl around him, but he can't seem to focus on anything except the solid weight of Mae against his chest, the proof that she's unharmed. She wriggles again, more insistently this time.
"Eli... can't... breathe." Her words finally penetrate his haze.
He releases her gradually, the world rushing back in full technicolor as his mother fusses over them both, Lirael and Theron hovering nearby. Mae accepts Theron's help up while Eli pushes himself to his feet, brushing grass from his clothes with hands that refuse to remain steady.
"I'm fine, Mother," he manages. even if his voice sounds strange to his own ears.
"Fine? Sweetheart, you nearly got hit by a car!" Mother's hands flutter about his shoulders, checking for damage.
"No," he corrects sharply, his composure returning even as his pulse continues its erratic dance. "Mae nearly got hit by a car." The words taste like ash in his mouth.
Lirael eyes him skeptically, "Mae's not the one who looks ready to faint."
But Mae isn't paying attention to any of them. She's crouched by the car wheel, examining her decimated phone with an expression that's almost... his mind supplies 'adorable' before he can stop it. The traitorous thought sends a fresh wave of panic through him. Bleeding heck, maybe he does need medical attention.
When she finally looks at him, those eyes are blazing with indignation. He responds with his most infuriating smirk, clinging to patterns like a drowning man to driftwood. This, at least, he knows how to handle.
"I have a backup," she reminds him.
"Bloody hell you do," he retorts automatically, though his earlier fury has evaporated like morning mist. The image of Mae nearly getting hit keeps replaying in his mind, each iteration making his stomach twist more violently than the last. She can keep the sodding video for all he cares, but now that his brain's decided to function properly, he realizes he could have just had Jenkins contact their tech department to remotely wipe her device. It would have taken all of five minutes, no undignified lawn sprinting required.
Stone the fucking crow. He'd actually chased her around like some demented fox hunter when he could have solved this with one phone call. This new tendency to act without thinking where Mae's concerned was becoming rather concerning. Perhaps the fever had permanently damaged something vital in his brain. He misses the uncomplicated days before the Silvia incident, when his thoughts regarding Mae were safely contained in their boxes— convenient wife, adequate companion, excellent... well. The point is, things were simpler then.
Mae still shoots daggers at him over her destroyed phone, and something about her current state—hair wild from their chase, grass stains on her clothes, that oversized shirt slipping off one shoulder— all of it makes his chest perform that eccentric compression that's becoming disturbingly frequent.
Sodding hell. He definitely needs that doctor to check for lasting neurological damage.
"Do we even exist here?" Theron's drawl cuts through his spiral.
Eli finally acknowledges his family's presence, noting their varying expressions of concern and amusement. "What are you lot doing here?"
"Checking on you, obviously," Lirael answers. "Though clearly we should have come sooner, given that you're out here attempting to recreate scenes from bloody Bond films."
"That's not—" he starts, but Theron jumps in with gleaming eyes.
"Oh yes, because chasing your wife around the garden is perfectly standard behavior for someone who was supposedly dying yesterday." His grin widens to Cheshire cat proportions. "Unless... hold up, is this some sort of foreplay? Because if so, I'd rather not be privy to the details—"
"Theron!" their mother looks on, horrified.
Mae, still cradling her mangled phone like a fallen comrade, mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "wouldn't you like to know" at a volume clearly meant only for his ears. The destroyed mobile seems to have short-circuited her usually impeccable self-censorship.
"Mae dear," his mother's voice rises, "why on earth are you fretting over a mobile? And what possessed you both to go tearing about the driveway like hooligans? It's frightfully dangerous. And Eli—" She rounds on him, those stern blue eyes of hers boring into him with dissatisfaction, "Mae tells me you've only just recovered today. What are you doing gallivanting about? Has Dr. Harrison cleared you?"
Before he can formulate a dignified response, his mother's got her arm looped through his, somehow managing to drag all six-foot-four of him along like an errant schoolboy.
Behind them, he catches Lirael's stage whisper to Mae asking what exactly she was fleeing from "this time"—as though this were a regular occurrence—while Theron demands elaboration on this fascinating pattern of behavior. Mae seems to embrace her new role as chaos agent as she deadpans that Eli had been attempting murder. His siblings' resulting cackling earns them a glare over his shoulder that would normally send his employees diving for cover. All it takes is one destroyed phone to demolish Mae's careful composure? If he'd known that months ago...
But the amusement deflates once they enter the mansion. The aftermath of their chase looks like someone had let a vengeful poltergeist loose in their home.
"What in God's name happened here?"
Mae's suddenly finds the overhead beams riveting. Eli maintains an equal silence.
Lirael takes full advantage of her superior height as she pats Mae's head with exaggerated sympathy. "Poor thing, you weren't exaggerating. He's beastly, isn't he?"
Mae's non-response is interrupted by her sudden focus on whatever Theron's brandishing. "What on earth is that?"
In the background, his mother's gone full banshee over the state of the mansion, her concern for his health supplanted by horror at the waking destruction. The sound of her summoning the servants echoes through the mayhem.
"This?" Theron waves the object with the air of a magician about to perform. "Care to venture a guess?"
"No idea," Mae's complexion takes on an interesting shade of green, "but it smells foul. Please tell me that's not cat excrement?"
Eli takes an experimental sniff, detecting nothing offensive. Lirael nods with enthusiasm. "I thought the same initially, but now it's rather pleasant. Though that's likely the pregnancy playing havoc with my senses."
"Blue cheese!" Theron announces with unnecessary drama. "Thought we'd celebrate you taking an unprecedented break from world domination. Bit of a milestone, really." He navigates the obstacle course of their destruction to deliver a hearty clap to Eli's back.
"Eli Augustine Parrish!" their mother's shrieks echo through the mansion. "Is that the Queen's gift—the one I gave you—in bloody pieces on your floor?"
Mae meets his gaze with butter-wouldn't-melt innocence.
"PRICELESS! That vase was ABSOLUTELY PRICELESS! A ROYAL GIFT—"
Eli's jaw goes taut as Mae edges toward the doorway. "I should probably... sort these grass stains on my clothes," she murmurs, already plotting her escape.