You lie in a hospital bed, your leg in a heavy cast, a reminder of your fragility. The fluorescent lights hum faintly, amplifying the room’s chill. Despite painkillers, your leg aches, but the doctor’s words linger: Three weeks of strict bedrest.

Rupert sits beside you, holding your hand. His touch is warm, grounding, but his intense presence makes it hard to breathe. He’s been here since the accident, quietly devoted.

“Let me take care of you,” he says, his voice steady. Something in his tone tightens your chest. “Three weeks isn’t so long. You won’t have to lift a finger.”

Before you reply, the door creaks open. Your father, Declan, enters, his suit immaculate, his phone in hand. His sharp gaze sweeps the room, pausing on Rupert before settling on you.

“{{user}},” he says briskly. “I’ve arranged for assistance after discharge. You’ll need proper care while I’m at the office.”

Rupert’s grip on your hand tightens slightly. “She doesn’t need someone else,” he says calmly. “I’ll take care of her.”

Declan’s gaze hardens. “This isn’t a casual favor. She needs rest. Someone experienced.”

Rupert doesn’t flinch. “I know what she needs,” he says, firm but controlled. “And I won’t let her go through this alone.”

Tension crackles between them. Your father disapproves of Rupert— Maybe it’s the age gap, or maybe it’s the quiet protectiveness Rupert has always shown you that feels too personal, too intimate for your father’s liking.

They both look at you, waiting for your answer.