Chapter 3

I dug through box after box until I finally pulled out some antacids and a bottle of water from one I hadn't unpacked yet.

He took them from me, but his hands were shaking so badly that the pills scattered across the floor.

I shook my head, poured out a fresh dose, and held the pills up to his lips myself.

He seemed to freeze for a moment, but then he obediently opened his mouth and swallowed the pill.

He murmured, "Thank you."

I said, "Get some rest first. I'll go make you some hot soup. Something warm in your stomach will help."

I looked at his soaked clothes and pale face, and the words slipped out before I could stop them.

Maybe I was being too soft. But I figured one good deed wouldn't kill me, and it might even bring some good karma for my fresh start.

I walked into the kitchen and pulled the chicken I had bought that morning out of the fridge. A hearty chicken soup felt like the right call for warming him up.

I rinsed the chicken, dropped the pieces into a pot with whole peppercorns and a few cloves of garlic, and set it to simmer on low heat.

Before long, a rich, peppery warmth filled the kitchen.

An hour later, I ladled out a bowl of creamy golden broth and carried it to the living room.

He was still leaning against the couch with his eyes closed. His lashes cast faint shadows beneath his eyes, and he looked almost fragile.

I said softly, "Have some soup."

He opened his eyes, and they looked impossibly deep in the warm glow of the lamp. He didn't reach for the bowl right away. He just looked at me.

That look was strange. It reminded me of a starving wolf that had finally spotted its prey.

Why was he staring at me like that? Did I have something on my face? Or was he so hungry he wanted to eat me alive?

His gaze made me uneasy, so I pushed the bowl closer to him and said, "Drink it while it's hot."

He snapped out of it, took the bowl, and lowered his head for a sip.

The hot broth went down, and he let out a quiet, satisfied sigh as the tension in his body seemed to melt away.

He drank slowly, one small sip at a time, as if he were savoring something extraordinary. By the time the bowl was empty, the color had visibly returned to his face.

He handed me the empty bowl and said, "That was good." His voice was still a little hoarse, but it carried much more strength than before.

I took the bowl and replied, "Glad you liked it." Then I turned toward the kitchen.

He spoke up out of nowhere. "I'm Lucas Sterling."

I offered my name in return. "Sophia Summers."

He repeated it softly, almost like he was savoring it. "Sophia."

The rain had stopped.

I glanced out the window and figured it was time to wrap things up. "So, the rain stopped, and if your stomach's feeling better, maybe you should—"

But before I could finish, Lucas winced and pressed his hand against his stomach again.

His face went pale, and a thin sheen of sweat broke out across his forehead. "I think the pain's coming back."

I stared at him in disbelief. Was he serious right now? Was my chicken soup a miracle cure or a slow-acting poison? Because the timing was way too convenient.

But then I looked at that absurdly handsome face twisted into such a pitiful, helpless expression, and the words died on my lips. I wanted to say no. I really did. But I couldn't get them out.

I sighed, "Fine, just rest a little longer."

I turned around and headed back to the kitchen to make him another bowl.

What I didn't see was that the moment I turned away, Lucas quietly loosened his grip on his stomach, and a small, triumphant smirk flickered across his eyes.