The Road Back to You

The next morning, Violet arrived at the office expecting to see Ethan, but his seat remained empty. A frown tugged at her lips as she scanned the room. He was never late.

"Looking for someone?" Jade, noticing her concern, leaned against her desk with a smirk. 

"Don't be annoying. Where's Ethan?" Violet rolled her eyes. 

"Sick. Probably dying of embarrassment too. But mostly sick. Hungover and feverish," Jade chuckled. 

Violet's breath hitched slightly. Without another word, she grabbed her bag and left, heading straight to the grocery store. If Ethan was sick, she wasn't going to just sit around and do nothing.

Ethan woke up feeling like death. His head throbbed, his mouth was dry, and there was a strange heaviness in his limbs that made even breathing feel like a chore. The faint morning light seeping through the curtains did nothing to ease the pounding in his skull.

Ethan's apartment was surprisingly minimalist; everything perfectly arranged, just like him. But right now, he looked nothing like his usual self. His hair was disheveled, and a light sheen of sweat covered his forehead as he lay on the couch, his eyes barely open.

Groaning, he pressed a hand to his forehead, trying to recall the events of last night. The dinner. The drinks. The dance. And then... 

His entire body tensed.

He remembered her.

Violet. Her laughter. The way her hands had felt on him. The way he had leaned too close, said too much... 

"Shit," he muttered under his breath.

A sharp knock on the door made him groan louder. Before he could muster the strength to tell whoever it was to go away, the door swung open.

"Rise and shine, Sinclair!" Violet's voice rang through the room, far too cheerful for his liking.

He cracked open an eye to find her standing there, arms crossed, a smirk playing at her lips. She looked entirely too smug, and Ethan already knew this was going to be a long morning.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he grumbled, voice hoarse.

"Jade told me you were dying of a hangover, so I thought I'd be a good coworker and bring you some survival supplies. Also, I had to see this for myself. Ethan Sinclair, brought down by a few drinks? A rare sight indeed," Violet strolled in, holding up a bag. 

"I'm fine," he scowled. 

"You look like hell," she scoffed. 

"Where's your kitchen?" Violet ignored his weak protest and set down the bag of groceries. 

Ethan sighed, knowing better than to argue with her right now. He nodded towards the open-concept kitchen, watching as she moved around with ease, pulling out ingredients and setting up to cook.

Minutes later, she returned with a bowl of warm soup.

"Sit up," she instructed.

"I can feed myself," Ethan barely moved, his head heavy. 

"Yeah? With what strength? Come on, Sinclair, let me do this," Violet arched a brow. 

With no energy to protest, Ethan allowed her to help him sit up against the cushions. Carefully, she scooped up the soup and brought the spoon to his lips, blowing on it before guiding it to him. He hesitated for a second before finally accepting it.

"Not bad," he muttered after a few sips. "Didn't know you could cook."

"There's a lot you don't know about me," Violet smirked. 

She continued feeding him in silence, her fingers occasionally brushing against his as he weakly tried to hold the bowl. After finishing, she handed him medicine and tucked him back under the blanket.

When Violet returned, Ethan was dozing lightly. She sat beside him, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. The fever made him look softer, less guarded. She reached over and gently brushed his hair back, frowning at how warm he still was.

Her gaze drifted to the nearby table, where a framed photograph sat. It was a picture of a young Ethan with his family. She picked it up, tracing the image with her fingers.

Ethan stirred. "Don't," he murmured, his voice hoarse.

"You never talk about them," she glanced at him. 

"There's nothing to talk about," his jaw tightened. 

Violet didn't push. Instead, she set the frame down and whispered, "Okay."

A silence stretched between them, thick with words left unsaid.

Ethan eventually drifted into sleep, his breathing evening out. Violet sat on the floor beside the couch, watching him for a while. The usually controlled, intimidating man looked different like this… unguarded, vulnerable.

After a while, she quietly made her way back to the kitchen and started preparing a light meal for when he woke up.

Ethan woke up hours later, feeling slightly better. The fever had lessened, and the pounding in his head had dulled. For a moment, he thought Violet had left.

A strange sense of disappointment settled in his chest, until he heard soft humming coming from the kitchen.

He got up slowly, walking toward the sound. There she was, barefoot, standing by the stove, stirring something with a concentrated look on her face. His eyes softened.

"You're still here?" he murmured.

"Of course. You think I'd leave you to fend for yourself in this state?" she turned, grinning. 

"You didn't have to do all this," Ethan leaned against the counter, watching her. 

"I wanted to," Violet shrugged. 

There was something about the way she said it, simple, effortless, genuine. It made something tighten in his chest.

He had spent years keeping people at a distance, yet here she was, slipping through the cracks he hadn't realized were forming.

And for once, he didn't want to stop her.

As the night drew to a close, they shared a quiet dinner at Ethan's place, with Violet insisting he eat the meal she had lovingly prepared. Despite his usual reluctance to accept help, he found himself grateful for her presence. Before leaving, she made sure he was comfortable, reminding him to take his medicine.

Ethan, uncharacteristically soft, muttered a quiet thank you, his voice laced with something unfamiliar, something almost vulnerable.

Later, as he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts kept drifting back to her. The way she fussed over him, the warmth of her touch as she had carefully fed him, the lingering scent of her perfume in his home. She had cared for him in a way no one had in a long time.

And for the first time in years, he was happy.