ASYA'S POV
"Is marmalade okay?" Pasha asks, placing the jar on the counter.
I grip the hem of his T-shirt tighter as he turns to face me.
"I don't have anything else here, but I'll run to the store later and buy more food. We'll order some clothes for you, too. I rarely eat at home," he adds.
I tilt my head up, catching his gaze. "Thank you."
I'm wearing another of his T-shirts, nothing underneath—no panties, no bra. It feels strange, exposed in a way I've never experienced before.
When I woke up this morning, I had a fever again. Pasha wrapped me in a blanket, pulled me against his chest, and held me until my body stopped shaking. Hours—or maybe minutes—it felt endless. Later, he carried me into the bathroom, stayed while I used it, showered, brushed my teeth, wrapped me in a fluffy towel, and led me back to bed. I had stayed rooted, eyes glued to the bathroom door, until he rejoined me.
"Do you want coffee?" he asks.
