Isobel's POV
"I'm not an invalid," I muttered as Étienne adjusted the seatbelt for the third time.
"I never said you were," he replied, tugging the strap across my chest anyway. "But you do have a concussion, and your balance is about as reliable as Julien's patience."
I shot him a look. "You really can't help yourself, can you?"
"Not when I'm right." He shut the car door gently and slid into the driver's seat. His movements were annoyingly calm—like he had all the time in the world to be smug.
The drive was quiet. Streetlamps smeared gold across the glass as the city slid by. I leaned my head back and tried to ignore the dull throb behind my eyes.
"You didn't have to do this," I said at last.
"Do what?"
"Play hero. Pretend you care."
"I don't pretend."
I studied him. "Then what is this, Étienne?"
He didn't answer right away. His jaw worked, as if he were chewing on words. "Maybe it's guilt," he said after a moment. "Or maybe I just don't like seeing people left alone."
His tone made my chest tighten.
"Julien could've stayed with me," I whispered.
"Julien doesn't make you look at him like that," he replied quietly.
"Like what?"
He glanced at me, eyes sharp and soft at once. "Like you're afraid of recognizing something."
I turned to the window before he could see my fingers tremble. He was right. There was something about him that felt familiar—like Alexander.
When we reached his apartment he held the door without a word. Inside everything was neat and impersonal, expensive without effort.
"Where's your nurse?" I asked as I stepped in.
"You're looking at him."
"That's comforting."
"I make excellent tea," he said, moving toward the kitchen. "And I can apply ice packs with dramatic precision."
I smiled despite myself. Then stopped. "Sit," he called over his shoulder. "Before you fall and make me look negligent."
I sank onto the couch, arms crossed. "You talk too much."
"And you don't talk enough."
"I'm injured."
He handed me a steaming cup and sat opposite me. His hair was slightly tousled, sleeves rolled up. There was an ease in the way he watched me, like we'd done this before.
"How do you even know how I take my tea?" I asked.
"I don't. I guessed."
"And if you're wrong?"
He shrugged. "Then you'll complain. Which you were planning to do anyway."
I almost laughed. "You're not very charming, you know."
"I'm practical."
"That's one word for it."
He leaned back, studying me as if I were a puzzle. "You've changed."
I blinked. "What?"
"Since the first day I met you," he said, voice light. "You were quieter, and way less cold."
"I was in a hospital, Étienne. People tend to be quiet when they're half-dead."
He smiled, small and real. "Fair point."
We sat in companionable silence for a while, the warmth of the cup seeping into my fingers.
Then I noticed the way he sat—leaning slightly to his right, wrist resting over his knee. It was disconcertingly familiar.
Alexander used to sit like that.
My throat tightened. I looked away. "You don't have to keep watching me like that," I said.
"Like what?"
"Like you're waiting for me to break."
He said softly, "Maybe I am."
The words hung between us and my heart skipped.
I needed a distraction. "So, what's your deal anyway? You have an actual job or just wander around saving random women from car accidents?"
"I run a foundation," he said. "We do community rehabilitation projects. Mostly for injured workers."
"That's… oddly specific."
"Occupational hazard."
I tilted my head. "You don't strike me as the charity type."
"I'm full of surprises."
I let a small smile slip. "You can say that again."
"Surprises," he repeated, the single word warm and soft.
I rolled my eyes. "You're impossible."
"Yet you're still here."
"That's because I can't walk straight yet."
He leaned forward a fraction. "Then I guess I'll have to keep you here until you can."
His tone was teasing, but the light in his eyes wasn't all mischief. Something steadier, quieter, threaded through it.
I felt that pull again — the thing I told myself I shouldn't feel.
I lifted the cup to my lips, pretending the steam was the only thing that mattered. "You're really not supposed to flirt with someone you're babysitting, you know."
He smiled. "Good thing I'm not your babysitter."
"What are you then?"
His answer came easy, like a truth he'd wanted to say for a while. "Someone who doesn't like seeing you hurt."
My stomach did something I didn't approve of.