Nevaeh stepped out of Mordred's office, her heart still racing. That man is dangerous, she told herself, shaking her head. The way he looked at her, the way he teased her—it was like he knew exactly how to get under her skin.
She walked down the hallway, trying to clear her mind, but the warmth of his touch still lingered on her hand. Get it together, Nevaeh.
As she reached the main office floor, her coworker Martin spotted her.
"Hey, Nevaeh," he called out, waving her over. "Where have you been? You just disappeared after this morning's segment."
"Nowhere important," she muttered, avoiding his gaze.
Martin raised a brow. "Nowhere important, huh? Then why do you look like you just survived an intense interrogation?"
Nevaeh sighed, knowing she was a terrible liar. "Fine. I was with Mordred."
Martin's eyes widened. "Wait… alone? In his office?!"
"Keep your voice down!" she hissed, glancing around.
Martin smirked. "What were you two doing?"
"Just having breakfast," she replied quickly.
He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Breakfast, huh? Just breakfast?"
Nevaeh groaned. "Yes, Martin, just breakfast. He invited me, ordered food, and we talked. That's it."
Martin wasn't convinced, but before he could press further, their boss called them over for the next assignment. Nevaeh sighed in relief, but deep down, she knew this wasn't the last time Mordred would shake up her world.
---
Meanwhile, Back in Mordred's Office
Mordred leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. A small smirk played on his lips.
"She's different," he muttered to himself.
Unlike the other women around him, Nevaeh didn't throw herself at him. She wasn't desperate for his attention. If anything, she seemed determined to resist him.
And that only made him want her more.
He had dated before—contract relationships, publicity stunts, temporary flings—but none of it ever felt real. He was surrounded by people who only wanted the idea of him, the superstar, the perfect idol.
But Nevaeh…
She looked at him like a person.
Mordred exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. Maybe it was a bad idea to get attached. His life was a mess of contracts, obligations, and fake smiles. There was no room for something real.
But still, the thought lingered.
What if?
---
Later That Night – Nevaeh's Apartment
Nevaeh sat on her bed, staring at her phone.
Her friends were gossiping in the group chat, but she wasn't paying attention. Her mind was stuck on one thing—why did Mordred call her after their conversation earlier?
She had just gotten home when her phone rang. She picked up, expecting it to be one of her coworkers, but instead…
Mordred.
He didn't even give her time to be surprised.
"So, about earlier…"
Nevaeh had sighed. "What now, Mordred?"
"Nothing. Just… talking."
"Talking?"
"Yeah. I don't really get to do that with people."
She had frowned at that. It was strange to think that someone as famous as Mordred had no one to really talk to.
And now, hours later, she was still thinking about it.
Nevaeh sighed and flopped back on her bed.
This man is going to be a problem.
But what worried her the most was that—deep down—she didn't mind.
But onething that worried her was that morderd's voice felt like he wasn't okay ... it's seems he's not feeling well.
And that got her rushing to his house to know what's wrong since he didn't want to tell her.
Nevaeh's heart pounded as she stood in front of Mordred's massive house, pressing the doorbell repeatedly.
Mordred never sounds weak. Never.
When he had called her just minutes ago, his voice was hoarse, sluggish—like someone barely holding on. He hadn't said much, just that he wasn't feeling well. And for some reason, instead of calling his manager, his assistant, or anyone from his expensive medical team, he had called her.
The door finally clicked open, and Nevaeh hurried inside. The house was dim, the air heavy with silence. She rushed toward his bedroom, following the faint sound of his groans.
She found him sprawled on the massive bed, his skin glistening with sweat. His normally flawless features were scrunched up in discomfort, and his hair was messily sprawled over his pillow.
"Mordred," she breathed, stepping closer.
His eyes fluttered open slightly, barely focusing on her. "You came…" His voice was rough, barely above a whisper.
"Of course I did. You sound like you're dying."
"I might be…" He gave a weak smirk but winced right after.
Nevaeh placed the back of her hand against his forehead and gasped. "You're burning up!"
"I'll be fine…" He tried to push himself up, but his body betrayed him, sending him crashing back against the pillows.
Nevaeh clicked her tongue. "Yeah, sure. That's why you're calling random journalists instead of your doctor."
Mordred let out a raspy chuckle, then groaned in pain. "Didn't feel like dealing with people…" His eyes barely stayed open. "But you… you feel different."
Her breath hitched for a second, but she quickly shook it off. "Okay, enough of that. I need to bring your fever down."
She grabbed a towel and rushed to the bathroom, soaking it in cool water before returning to his side. As she pressed it against his forehead, he let out a relieved sigh.
She reached for his wrist, checking his pulse. "You have a doctor, right?"
Mordred hummed lazily. "Somewhere…"
She rolled her eyes. "You're impossible."
Then, out of nowhere, he caught her wrist, stopping her movements. His grip was weak but firm enough to make her pause.
"…Don't leave," he murmured. His eyes, though half-lidded, held something raw. Vulnerable.
Nevaeh swallowed. She had never seen Mordred like this before—so unguarded, so… human.
"I won't," she whispered.
She adjusted the blanket over him and sat beside the bed, watching his chest rise and fall. He was already drifting into sleep, his breathing growing steadier.
And yet, even as he slept, his hand never let go of hers.