What was that? Was he actually embarrassed to be seen by her?
Her chest tightened, but considering everything they’d been through—everything she had endured at his side—why was it such a big deal?
Her expression hardened. The warmth drained from her face as her eyes narrowed at the closed door.
When Ernest came out, he was already dressed in a bathrobe. Compared to earlier, when he had only worn a towel, he now looked tightly wrapped—almost as if he were shielding himself.
Linda had already smoothed her expression into a pleasant smile. “You’re up. Feeling better?”
She glanced at his damp hair, then wheeled herself toward the bathroom, muttering, “You never dry your hair properly.”
He didn’t respond right away. It was only when she returned, holding a hairdryer and gesturing toward the chair beside her, that he realized what she meant to do.
“What are you just standing there for?” she asked, pointing to the chair. “Sit down. I’ll dry your hair.”
She kept muttering as she plugged it in. “You always let it stay wet. You’re just asking for a headache one day.”
Ernest didn’t move. His eyes stayed downcast.
“What’s wrong?” Linda asked more gently. “Come here—”
He swallowed before speaking. “Next time, knock before you come in.” It was clear he was placing the blame on her.
Linda’s smile faded. A flicker of irritation flashed in her eyes, though she tried to hold it back. “I did knock,” she said. “You were in the shower. You probably just didn’t hear it over the water—”
“Then wait,” Ernest interrupted. His frown deepened. “Wait until I respond. Don’t come in unless I say so. Is that really so difficult?”
Every word was firm, deliberate. And with each one, Linda’s expression grew colder.
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“Is that really so difficult?” she repeated, half-laughing as she shook her head. “No. It’s not.”
She fixed her gaze on him. “But Ernest—why do I have to follow all these rules with you? Just because I saw you in a towel?”
His face remained rigid as he gave a single word. “Yes.”
Just that—nothing more, nothing less.
“What?” Linda stared at him, stunned. She hadn’t expected him to answer like that. She had been ready to let it pass—but that reply lit a fire in her.
Her voice turned sharp. “Have you forgotten what we are to each other? We’ve been together for over ten years! I’m your fiancée! Why should I be tiptoeing around you like a stranger? Ernest, we’re getting married. We’re supposed to be closer than anyone else!”
She lifted her face, watching him closely—searching for even the smallest flicker of warmth or regret.
But there was none.
His handsome face remained unreadable—no regret, no tenderness, no anger. Nothing. It was as if she were a mere stranger.
.
.
.