Paris awoke the next morning almost as healthy as a horse. His fever had broken just a fraction and he could feel the life returning to his limbs. He still felt sore, and his throat ached, but he felt a lot better than he did the day before. It was incredible.

As he lay there grinning, the events of last night rushed over him, and he stilled.

Wood.

He sprang up off his bed and looked over at his mahogany couch. No Wood. His white-dotted duvet was also missing. Looking around him, he realized that the bowls and napkin had disappeared from where they'd been left last night too. He frowned. She'd said she'd stay with him. Had she changed her mind and returned home?

Ignoring the dull ache that seared through him, he changed into a mauve shirt and headed out of his room.

There were loud noises emanating from the kitchen. Brows furrowing, he checked his wrist-watch. Half-past seven. Wasn't it too early for Martha to be here? Paris followed the slowly increasing sound and stumbled upon Shanya, moving around the kitchen in a frenzy, dressed in his dark shirt which drooped over her shoulders and traveled down a little ways above her knees.

He froze. His eyes raked up and down her figure, and then at the messy scene before him, utterly transfixed. No...no. Something deep within him burst and filled him with warmth, satisfaction, fulfillment, joy and what he dared not mention. A terrain of emotions played at his insides until he thought he would weep. Literally, weep. What was it about women wearing a guy's shirt that was so intimate? What was it about this particular woman now making a mess of his kitchen that turned his insides to mush?

As he stared on, still dumbfounded, his eyes glazed over in the sweetest agony and his heart quickened as he watched her struggle to turn over a ruined sandwich. All thoughts of propriety vanished out the window as he became inextricably aware of the undeniable fact that he was attracted to this woman. Wholly and utterly attracted to her. This sweet-smelling-one-dimpled -gold-digging-fiery-chocolate-goddess wearing his shirt.

And he knew, without a doubt, that that shirt would be his favorite shirt, always.

"You're staring, Grey-eyes."

He nearly jumped. His face heated and he turned crimson as he realized he'd been caught practically gawking at her. He almost apologized but stopped himself short. He would not be a simpering fool. He assessed her features instead, lips parting in a small grin. She seemed well rested but also a little faint—she'd probably been up since dawn. But by her tone and awkward—almost painful stance, he had a feeling her mood was rather snappy.

Her eyes traveled down to her outfit, and she pursed her lips.

"I'm so sorry, my clothes were um... soiled when I woke up this morning and I needed to change. Yours was the only available option."

He walked closer to her, not missing the fact that by soiled she'd meant she was having her monthly bleeding. That would explain the faint look. And the mood.

"You're welcome to wear my shirt any time." His eyes snaked up and down her frame in abject approval. "It looks better on you anyway."

Her mouth opened slightly to say something but she seemed to think better of it and closed it, gnawing at her lower lip instead. Over the past eight weeks since he'd gotten to know her, he noticed she only bit her lip when she was nervous. He searched her eyes for any hint of embarrassment or revulsion at her current plight but he saw neither, only cautiousness. A small part of him slumped in relief.

"Do you need anything?" he whispered softly, his hand itching to touch her cheek. When she raised her eyebrow in question, he elaborated. "For the pain."

She shook her head once.

"Really? 'Cause I have a lot of medicines to spare. Just ask Martha."

She smiled then, and Paris was left seriously considering if that smile was perhaps the most beautiful gift he's received all his life. God, he was corny. He shut his eyes briefly to regain control of himself. There was mere attraction, and then there was this.

What was wrong with him?? He had a girlfriend. Whom he loved, and who loved him back. And this girl before him wasn't her.

When he opened his eyes again, his vision had cleared and he was Heather's once more.

"Mine doesn't - it doesn't hurt quite a lot," Shanya was saying. "The pain is there but it's tolerable." Then her eyes turned teasing as amusement coated every word that came next. "Nice of you to ask me that, I'm touched. And it's good to see you back on your feet again. Feeling any better?"

He nodded briskly and stepped away from her. "Thank you for taking care of me last night."

She tilted her head a little, and her gaze washed over him. Whatever she was feeling or thinking, she was doing a good job keeping it hidden. "You're welcome. Although you might wanna consider giving me a raise, seeing as I saved your ass and all."

He laughed despite himself. "How much of a raise?"

"Like  25% more."

"Done."

She gave him a skeptical look. "Wow, that was too easy. I feel like I should demand more. Make it 40%."

Smiling, he turned serious. "You know, you've got a head for business. Why nursing?"

She mauled on that for a minute. "It just feels right."

Paris was about to respond but paused, sniffing the air permeating through the kitchen. Something was burnt. Badly. He looked towards the counter where a brown tray lay, three sandwiches resting upon it, the color of the midnight sky.

"You really weren't kidding when you said you couldn't cook."

She folded her arms, giving him a repressive look. "I thought I'd make grilled-cheese sandwiches. I mean, how hard could it be? Turns out, very hard."

Paris' laughter deepened, earning a scowl from Shanya.

"I don't know what you're being so coy about, it's your fault breakfast is ruined. You distracted me."

His breath caught in his chest and the smile on his face vanished. He'd distracted her. Even though he knew what she'd meant, that line meant volumes to him.

Clearing his throat, he quipped, "Is that how you explain away all your numerous failed cookings?" He could have sworn he'd heard her call him a prick under her breath.

She glared at him. "Since you're feeling well enough to mock me, I think you can fix your own breakfast."

Paris snorted. "I can, actually. How do you feel about omelettes and potatoes, with real sandwiches this time? I make a mean one," he added with a wink.

"Wouldn't mind it at all," she said, handing him the cooking gloves and walking away from the kitchen. Before she disappeared, she looked over her shoulders at him. "I'll be back to make more soup for you. I don't like the color in your cheeks."

"Hey!" Paris called after her, "don't you want to see how the sandwich is done?"

"Nope," was all she said, almost disappearing into the corridor.

"And you wonder why you can't cook," Paris muttered under his breath.

"I heard that!"

* * * *

Shanya waited until she was out of sight and earshot before she released a long, long sigh of relief. Her heart was pounding in her chest, so much so that she couldn't help wondering if it could actually explode.

Amidst the dull ache that resided in her abdomen, she could feel herself leaking underneath her panties and suspected she was thoroughly stained. The first flow was always a flood. The blood had probably leaked right through the sanitary pad she'd been lucky to find inside her bag, and unto her black cotton panties. There had been just two sanitary pads in her bag. But for now, two was all she needed.

She headed straight to the guest bathroom to take a shower. Paris's bathroom was closer but she didn't dare use it because it would be too intimate. Would mean something that it really shouldn't. And she couldn't deal with that. Not right now. Not when he'd looked at her like she belonged with him. Not when her heart had completely stopped under that look.

As the water touched her skin, Shanya let it wash away the memory of those intense grey eyes that haunted her.

A/n: Mm. I hope the water hasn't also washed away your dexterity for voting:^)