Chapter 6 Dinner

"The medicine!" Hazel gently laid Damiete's head on the ground and rushed back into the house. She remembered the day she was arranging her things in the closet-she'd seen a medicine box tucked away.

At first, she thought he was doing drugs, but curiosity made her look it up. They weren't drugs. They were for panic attacks. For some reason, she'd been surprised. She thought Damiete was a flawless man, with just a sprinkle of his usual playboy antics.

"Please, don't die." Hazel's voice cracked as she dug through the closet, her vision blurred by tears. She finally found the box beneath his boxers. Grabbing it, she ran to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of water, and ran back to where he lay, trembling.

"Damiete, I've brought the medicine." She dropped to her knees beside him, gently placing his head on her lap. "You need to take this, or..." Her voice trailed off, thick with panic.

She pried his mouth open, quickly read the dosage on the label, and placed the pill inside.

"Here, water." She lifted his head a little and brought the bottle to his lips. He swallowed it-barely, and she let his head rest on her laps.

"You'll be fine," she whispered, stroking his hair gently. He clutched her hand tightly for assurance. They stayed like that for more than thirty minutes until his shaking subsided. His chest rose and fell at a steady rhythm. He was breathing again. Thank the heavens!

"Let's get you to bed." She said to him.

Damiete nodded weakly. With one arm draped over her shoulder and hers wrapped around his waist, she helped him into the bedroom. She propped his head on a pillow and pulled the duvet over him. His fingers still clutched her hand, so she stayed seated at the edge of the bed.

An hour later...

Damiete awoke with a pounding headache. He exhaled, the memories flooding back-panic, the helplessness... Hazel.

He turned to the side of the bed where she had been sitting, but it was empty.

He threw off the covers, peeled off his shirt, and tossed it on the floor. His stomach growled loudly, and twisted painfully. All he'd had that day was black coffee at the office.

Then, he smelled it-food. Real food, not the takeouts he normally ordered. Something savory and warm that made his stomach growl even louder. He followed the scent to the kitchen.

Hazel moved around the room in a soft rhythm. Her hazelnut hair was up in a messy bun. She wore a crop top and snug shorts that hugged her hips just right.

He mentally slapped himself. Now was not the time to think in such a way.

She didn't notice him until she reached for the bowl of diced peppers.

Hazel gasped, startled. "You scared me!"

"Sorry," he said quickly, stepping into the room. "Didn't mean to sneak up on you." He took a seat on one of the tall kitchen stools.

"I'm glad to see you're awake." She gave him a soft smile. "I was scared to death, you know." Truly, she had been. She kept checking his chest to be sure he was still breathing. When it looked like he had recover, she ran down to the grocery store.

"Are you sure?" he narrowed his eyes, skeptical. "Because I'm pretty sure you're one of the people who wants me dead." He reached for an apple.

"Absolutely," Hazel nodded, her hands on her hip. "I'll only kill you after I get my money and sponsorship." She turned back to the pot on fire. The stew was nearly done.

"What are you making?" he asked, rubbing his stomach. It growled again. He bit into the apple, chewing it with relish.

"Food." She rolled her eyes. Was he blind, or just playing dumb? "Almost broke my leg trying to get groceries."

"I barely stay in this apartment. I eat out a lot." He bit into the apple. "No one aside from my assistant and PR manager is allowed in here. But you... you're the exception."

Hazel rolled her eyes again. She wasn't naive enough to believe that line. He'd probably told it to a dozen women.

He watched her silently as she cooked, playing the role of a wife-no, stop that thought. He mentally slapped himself again.

An hour later... Dinner was ready. They sat down at the table to eat. She'd made white rice snd tomatoes stew with fried plantain and chicken.

"This tastes amazing," he said between mouthfuls of rice. "I've never met a cook better than my mom, but you're definitely top-tier." He picked up a piece of plantain. It melted in his mouth.

"Thank you, Mr. Torres."

"Your mom must have trained you well." He smiled, assuming every girl learned to cook from her mother. Wasn't it true tho?

Hazel froze. Her fork hovered mid-air. Tears welled in her eyes. He looked up at her, confused as to why she was crying. Did he say anything wrong?

"I have no mother." Her voice cracked. "No father, either."

She'd been dumped at birth, left to die until a kind stranger found her and took her to an orphanage. Life had been harsh, but she'd survived.

"I'm sorry," Damiete said softly. "I had no idea."

"It's okay." She managed a watery smile. "You're lucky, though. You had both."

"Not for long." He sighed. "My mom died when I was ten. My dad passed recently."

"I'm really sorry," she whispered. "Must have been devastating for you."

"It's fine. At least I got to know them. Even if it was brief."

Sensing the weight of the conversation, Hazel quickly changed the topic. "What happened to you? The blood on your shirt... your nose?"

"I had a fight with a fool at the office," he said dryly. "Some people don't know their place."

"I was really scared when I found you like that." She hadn't meant it to sound like she was making fun of him, but it touched a nerve.

Damiete stiffened. He hated feeling vulnerable-especially from panic attacks. He hated himself so much.

"You don't have to feel bad," she tried to reassure him.

But he was already pushing back his chair noisily.

"Once you're done, get dressed. We have a party to attend." He walked away, leaving her sitting at the table-wondering what she'd said wrong.