Natalya's fingers slipped from mine like she'd been burned, her breath hitching as she adjusted her damp hair with flustered movements. The bathrobe clung to her curves, the fabric still slightly damp from her shower, releasing faint wisps of jasmine and vanilla into the air between us.
She pushed the wheelchair with more force than necessary, the wheels squeaking slightly against the hospital floor.
As she helped me back into bed, her movements were precise but charged with an undercurrent of tension. She tucked the blankets around me with almost aggressive care, her fingers brushing against my chest before snatching back like she'd been shocked.
"I'm going out... for a bit," she muttered, avoiding my eyes as she fussed with the hem of her robe. "You should just rest. And if you need anything—" Her voice cracked slightly. "Just call me. Not the nurse. Me."
