Weston’s gaze darkened as he saw the defiance in her eyes, his hands running through her wet hair with increasing force. Stella winced but remained silent, enduring the discomfort as he dried her hair. As time passed, her eyes filled with unshed tears, and Weston’s heart twinged at the sight.
“If you told me you were hurting, you wouldn’t have to suffer in silence,” he said softly, his voice laced with concern.
Stella, refusing to acknowledge his words, wiped the corner of her eyes and turned her face away. She was the one enduring the pain, yet somehow, she felt the blame was on her for not voicing it. Weston’s heart sank, guilt flooding his chest. With a deep sigh, he placed the hairdryer aside, his hands cupping her face gently as he leaned his forehead against hers. “How did you become so bold?” he murmured. His lips brushed the tip of her nose in a soft, lingering kiss.
“If you want to see Roger, go ahead,” he added, his tone cold yet yielding. “Just don’t wear that sour expression. I’m giving you what you want, so there’s no need for this attitude.”
Stella’s eyes shimmered with surprise, not expecting him to relent. The change in his demeanor caught her off guard. Weston’s expression softened slightly as he saw the tension melt from her face. He couldn’t help but sneer, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I gave you what you wanted. Now, how about a smile?”
Despite her lingering resentment—he had threatened Roger earlier—Stella decided to let go of her frustrations for now. She flashed him a smile, albeit a small and forced one. Weston accepted it with a nod.
“Let’s sleep now,” he said, his voice softer than before.
Stella nodded, her exhaustion beginning to take over. Just as she was about to settle into the bed, Weston patted her shoulder. “Are you hungry, since you skipped dinner?”
“No,” she replied, shaking her head, though a small pang of hunger tugged at her stomach. Weston studied her for a moment, then stood and walked toward the kitchen without another word.
Half an hour later…
Weston returned, carrying a tray of food that Joan had prepared. He placed it carefully on the small table in front of Stella. “You don’t have to eat if you’re not hungry. But if you are, no one will care if you’re starving in the middle of the night.”
His words were blunt, but she decided to remain silent and accept his gesture. She reached for the food, offering a quiet “Thank you.”
Weston eyed her intently. “You don’t hate me anymore?”
Stella knew the question carried more weight than it seemed. She chose not to respond, instead finishing her meal in silence. When she handed the empty plate back to him, Weston didn’t leave right away. Instead, he reached out and gently wiped the corner of her lips with his thumb.
“How old are you, still leaving stains on your mouth?” he remarked, his voice a mix of teasing and concern.
Stella lowered her head, quickly wiping the corner of her lips to check for any remaining stains. But before she could move, Weston grabbed her chin, holding her still. He retrieved a tissue from the bedside table, gently helping her clean her mouth.
Their faces were so close that Stella could feel his breath warm against her skin. The proximity sent a shiver down her spine. For a brief moment, she wondered if they would move even a fraction closer, their lips touching. But Weston stayed still, his hands gentle as he finished wiping her mouth.
Afterward, he released her and stood, taking the empty bowl with him as he walked out of the room.
Stella watched him go, her body slowly relaxing as the tension left her. She looked around at the spacious room before closing her eyes, allowing herself to drift into a restless slumber.
When Weston returned,
He found Stella curled up under the blanket, her back turned toward the door. He shook his head in exasperation before heading straight to the bathroom.
Stella lay in the silence of the room, hearing the soft sound of running water from the bathroom. Her mind drifted as she listened, her thoughts tangled in the strange, uncomfortable peace that had settled between them.
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