Rodrigo stood at the entrance of his room for a moment before he pushed it open.

His eyes met the empty room.

She was not in.

The bed was undisturbed, the lamps low, the evening air coming through the gap in the curtains. He stepped inside and let the door fall shut behind him.

He’d told himself he didn’t care when Seven reported what Dominic had done. He’d continued with work and told himself it was nothing, she meant nothing, yet here he was, standing in the middle of his own room at this hour, looking at the space she wasn’t in.

He’d told her to disappear. Had she —

He crossed to the wardrobe before he could stop himself and pulled it open. Her clothes were still there, arranged in their rows. He stood looking at them for a long second, the crease in his brows easing. Then he closed the door.

A sound came from the balcony.

He crossed to it and opened the door.

She was sitting on the low bench against the wall, her maid crouched beside her with an ointment in her hands. Nina’s arm was extended, the bruise visible even from the doorway — dark purple, the shape of a full grip, fingers and thumb. Rodrigo’s jaw tightened so hard it ached.

At the sound of the door both of them looked up. He watched Nina’s face shift when she saw him, something moving through it quickly, and then she straightened. Her maid stood and bowed and walked out.

Nina turned away as she covered the wound with her hand.

She could feel his eyes on her back. He hadn’t moved from the door, and her heart was already picking at her ribs, uneven and too fast. She stared at his shoes when he finally crossed to her, waiting for him to speak.

He crouched down instead.

The scent of him reached her before anything else — close, warm, more present than she was ready for. Nina moved back in reflex, her eyes going wide.

"It’s nothing," she said, shaking her head. "You don’t need to concern yourself —"

She reached for the ointment and winced as her fingers closed around it, her face tightening before she could stop it. He watched her try to stand. His hand came out and caught her wrist.

He held her there for a second, not moving, eyes on the bruise. Then he let go and took the ointment from her hand.

His gaze settled on the wound and darkened.

"Why did you let yourself get hurt," he said. The irritation in his voice didn’t sound like it was meant for her.

Nina pressed her lips together and looked away. When she stretched her arm out to him it was because she had no fight left for it right now.

She went still as he touched her. His palm held her steady while he worked, pressing the ointment in slowly, his eyes never leaving her arm. She told herself not to watch him.

She watched him anyway.

The crease between his brows. The tension that lived permanently in his jaw. The way his hands moved — careful, unhurried, contradicting every cold thing he had ever said to her. Her fingers gathered the fabric of her dress and held it.

His hand shifted, thumb dragging lightly across the bruise to smooth the ointment flat.

The touch moved through her like a current, up her arm and into her chest, and she exhaled slowly through her nose and tried to find the edge of herself again. Her pulse was loud now. Her skin felt pulled tight.

He still hadn’t looked up.

She wanted him to. She wanted him to lift his eyes and see her sitting here coming apart over the careful way he was touching a bruise he hadn’t caused. She wanted him to know how much he affected her, she wanted him to see her, and yet he didn’t look up. Not once.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth.

Stayed there.

His hand moved again, slow across the same place, and her heart lurched so hard she felt it in her throat. The space between them was nothing. His breath reached her. She could see the line of his lashes from here, the slight tension at the corner of his jaw.

She stopped thinking.

She leaned forward and kissed him.

The ointment hit the floor.

Rodrigo heard it distantly, the clatter of it rolling across the stone, and could not move. Her lips were soft against his and the world had simply stopped — not slowed, not shifted, stopped entirely, like something had reached in and pulled the mechanism out.

He tried to think.

There was nothing there. No thought formed, no instinct fired. Just the warmth of her mouth and the faint pressure of it and the sound of his own heartbeat loud and unsteady in his ears, like it had lost its rhythm and was trying to find it again.

He had never heard his own heart before. Not like this.

Then she lifted her head.

She didn’t pull back. She stayed close, hovering, and he opened his eyes and found hers already on him — wide, her cheeks gone red, something in her face that looked almost like shock, as though she hadn’t decided to do it until it was already done.

Her hand went over her mouth.

She blinked. Once, twice, her eyes darting across his face like she was looking for something to blame.

Rodrigo didn’t move. Stayed crouched in front of her, his hands still open where they’d held her arm, his mind somewhere three seconds behind the rest of him.

She was on her feet and through the door before he could catch up.

He remained where he was. The balcony settled back into quiet, the evening breeze moving across his face, the lily garden below going on as it always did. The ointment lay on its side near his knee.

He didn’t move for a very long time.