At night, although Lydia's fever had subsided, her body started heating up again.
In that hazy state between sleep and wakefulness, she vaguely sensed someone pushing the door open and stepping into the room, staring at her.
She struggled to open her eyes, trying to see who it was-but no matter how hard she tried, their face stayed blurry.
People always think too much when they're sick.
Once again, Lydia recalled how strangely Henry had behaved that night. The frustration welled up in her chest, and she couldn't help thinking about her long-deceased parents. Almost unconsciously, she started mumbling their names.
Completely unaware that the very person on her mind was now standing right by the bed.
Henry stood there, towering, cold as ice. His gaze bore down on Lydia, whose cheeks were tinted with an unhealthy flush.
His expression was tight, one hand buried in his pocket, the other gripping his cane a little too hard.
Ever since the day he almost lost control in front of Lydia, he'd done his best to avoid thinking about her. Even when he found out she was hospitalized with a fever, he bit it down and stayed away.
If she hadn't insisted on taking in that stray dog and dragging it out for walks come rain or shine, none of this would've happened.
Again and again, he reminded himself: she brought this on herself.
And yet... he still couldn't stop that quiet, lingering worry deep inside.
So in the end, here he was, slipping into her room for a quick look.
But now, seeing her tangled in feverish murmurs, his chest tightened for a second.
He knew she couldn't speak, but he still tilted forward slightly, eyes fixed on the way her lips moved.
Just as Henry leaned closer, his expression shifted-his face darkening, jaw tightening, eyes flashing with barely restrained fury.
She was mumbling something, voice hoarse and weak. "Dad...?"
His body tensed. For a moment, he froze. Then, without thinking, he grabbed her wrist and gave it a sharp shake.
"Lydia. Wake up."
No response.
He bent closer, voice low and cold. "I said wake up."
Still nothing.
His patience snapped. Without a word, he crossed the room and yanked the curtains wide open.
Sunlight slashed into the room like a blade-sharp, white, and merciless.
Lydia flinched.
A second later, she gasped awake, blinking against the sudden light, breath shallow. "Ah...!"
She struggled to sit up, confused and weak. "Cough-cough..."
Her eyes finally found him, Henry, his silhouette framed by the harsh daylight pouring in behind him.
His expression was unreadable. Cold. Still.
"You-why are you here?" her voice cracked.
"Why can't I be?" he said, voice low. "Still dreaming of your killer dad, huh? Even in your sleep?"
His words hit her like a punch to the gut, sharp and cruel.
With her lips trembling, Lydia tried to fight back, tears burning in her eyes.
"What's that supposed to mean? Yeah, he caused a tragedy, but he's still my dad. Why can't I remember him?!"
She should've been used to Henry's constant sarcasm by now, but no matter how many times it happened, she never saw it coming.
"You really forgot, didn't you?" His voice deepened, clenched with rage. "My dad died in this damn hospital ten years ago. And I lost my leg here too-ten years ago! And you think you have any right to sit here and mourn your killer father in the same place?"
His voice shook with fury, his breath unsteady.
Her tears broke free instantly, spilling down like a snapped string of pearls.
Of course she remembered.
Ten years ago, her parents had both died in this hospital too-on the same day.
That was the day everything in her life started to fall apart.
She wasn't even allowed to mourn them openly. Not with Henry around. She had to hide. To stay quiet. To go somewhere else just to light a candle.
And still, it wasn't enough for him. What more did he want from her?
Grief crashed over her like a wave, stealing her breath. Then, something inside her broke.
"If you really hate me that much..." she whispered, voice ragged. "Then just kill me already! Do it! At least then it'll be over!"
Henry's eyes flared. His jaw tightened. He stepped forward and his hand rose instinctively...
But stopped mid-air.
She stared up at him, tear-soaked, defiant.
His hand dropped.
He turned his face away, breathing hard.
"Don't tempt me," he said hoarsely. "You don't know how close I am."
