Leonard Vale was not used to people staying.
Assistants came and went. Doctors rotated in and out. Even lovers—if they could be called that—never stayed long enough to see the sunrise twice. He kept his world tightly controlled, like the temperature of his wine cellar or the tint of the mansion windows.
Arina Belle, however, was still here.
Three days had passed since her arrival, and each day had chipped away at the silence Leonard had once embraced. He wasn't sure he liked that. In fact, he was determined to remind her that she was merely a hired presence—one with a defined role and no right to cross boundaries.
Which is why, that morning, he waited until she brought him his tea before speaking in a tone colder than the steel in his espresso machine.
"You don't need to fuss with my schedule," he said flatly, not looking up from his tablet. "I've survived just fine without a bedtime routine."
Arina placed the tea on the side table gently. "Survival isn't the same as rest, Mr. Vale."
Her voice was soft, but not submissive. Calm, yet certain. It irked him more than it should have.
He set the tablet down and looked at her directly. "Do you always correct your employers?"
"Only when it helps them."
Leonard arched a brow. "Bold."
"Effective," Arina replied, a faint smile on her lips as she picked up a remote and dimmed the lights slightly. "You slept four hours last night. That's a record since your diagnosis. Your cortisol levels are dropping."
He scowled. "You've been checking my blood?"
"I've been reading your behavior. Your body tells stories even when your mouth doesn't."
Leonard exhaled sharply through his nose. "You think you're clever."
"No," she said as she adjusted the blinds to let in filtered morning light, "I think I'm observant."
He didn't respond, just watched her with quiet intensity as she moved through his room like she belonged there. Not intruding. Not commanding. Simply existing—steadily, peacefully.
And that was what irritated him the most.
She wasn't intimidated.
Not by him. Not by the house. Not by the sharpness in his tone or the emotional distance he'd perfected over the years.
She treated his ice like water.
---
By late afternoon, Leonard had made it his mission to test her patience.
He canceled the routine she had created for him.
He ignored her suggestions, snapped at her questions, and even claimed he had a "conference call" that mysteriously required total silence in the house for three hours—though no such call took place.
Arina didn't protest.
She simply adjusted.
She stayed out of his way without disappearing, tending to the small details of his comfort without being noticed. The temperature of the hallway was subtly lowered during his afternoon walk. A mild diffuser was placed in the lounge to balance the scent of his ever-present scotch. His study chair had a new lumbar cushion, perfectly aligned to reduce the ache he never mentioned.
He didn't acknowledge any of it.
But he noticed.
He always noticed.
That night, he found his bedroom dimly lit before he arrived. The sheets had been turned down. A small note on the side table read: "Chamomile is stronger with a touch of honey. Thought you might like to test it."
Leonard stood at the doorway for a full minute, staring at the note. He didn't know why it annoyed him so much.
Maybe because it was working.
---
Midnight
He stirred in his bed, restless again. His mind wouldn't shut off. Deadlines, expectations, board meetings, and an ache behind his eyes like a whisper he couldn't silence.
When the clock blinked 2:34 AM, he sat up and walked to the door that led to the guest room next to his.
He didn't knock. Just opened it quietly.
Arina was awake, sitting by the window in a thick robe, her hair slightly tousled. A book rested on her lap. She looked up, unsurprised.
"Couldn't sleep?" she asked.
"No," he said curtly.
She closed the book gently. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Leonard crossed his arms. "I didn't come for a therapy session."
Arina tilted her head. "Then why did you come?"
Silence.
He didn't answer. Didn't move.
She stood and walked over, stopping a respectful distance away. "You've built very high walls around your life, Mr. Vale. I'm not here to tear them down. Just to help you breathe inside them."
His jaw clenched. "That sounds like something you say to all your patients."
"I've never said it before."
His eyes locked on hers.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The tension in the room wasn't loud, but it was heavy. Intimate. Quietly electric.
Then she reached out—not to touch him, but to take something from the shelf beside her. A small jar of balm.
"Lie down," she said gently.
He blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You carry tension in your shoulders. Your sleep is lighter when your muscles are tight. Let me help."
He hesitated.
She didn't repeat herself.
Instead, she simply turned and walked back toward his room, assuming—correctly—that he would follow.
---
Leonard lay on his stomach, shirtless, while Arina sat beside him, her fingers skillfully applying warm balm along the line of his shoulder blades.
Her touch was nothing like the massages he'd experienced before—clinical, efficient, impersonal.
Arina's hands were steady, but soft. She pressed gently, her movements intentional, aware of every twitch of his muscles, every breath that caught between his ribs.
It wasn't sensual.
And yet, it wasn't clinical either.
It was… comforting.
Unnervingly so.
"You're used to doing everything alone," she said quietly. "Even healing."
"That's because people disappoint you," he murmured into the pillow.
"And sometimes," she replied, fingers brushing down his spine, "they surprise you."
Leonard didn't speak again.
But he didn't move away, either.
When she finished, she covered him with the blanket, dimmed the lights further, and returned to her chair.
He fell asleep before he could question why her presence made everything feel… less heavy.
---
Morning
Leonard woke up feeling strangely light. His mind was still full—but not chaotic.
He sat up slowly, looking toward the chair.
Empty.
A small cup of tea sat on his side table, steam still rising.
And beside it—a folded note in Arina's handwriting:
"Healing doesn't always begin with trust. Sometimes, it begins with permission. Last night, you gave it. Thank you."
He stared at the note for a long time.
Then, without thinking, he folded it carefully… and slipped it into the drawer of his nightstand.