Chapter 352: Personal Problem

NICK

The kitchen was too small for the amount of noise my mother was currently making. It wasn’t the sound of pots or pans, but the continuous, heavy stream of instructions disguised as worry that had been flowing from her since seven in the morning.

She moved behind the marble counter with the steady, unstoppable force of a woman who had assigned herself a grand purpose and had absolutely no intention of being relieved of it.

"—and you need to eat more than dry toast, Nicholas, you’re practically transparent—"

Her hand moved with a dish towel, wiping a spot on the counter that was already perfectly clean.

"—your father was in a meeting when Noah called. Do you have any actual idea how it feels to get that kind of call? You work too much. You have always worked too much."

I sat at the small dining table, not listening in any way that could be considered meaningful.

My phone lay face up beside my plate, its black screen the only thing in the room that actually had my attention.

My parents had arrived at the hospital exactly thirty minutes after Cyan’s visit, and they hadn’t particularly left since.

My mother, in particular, had treated my recovery like a major corporate project that required daily, invasive inspection.

The hospital had recommended an extra two weeks of rest before I returned to the surgical rotation, a recommendation I fought with every scrap of logic I possessed and promptly lost.

Now, I was serving out the remainder of that sentence under house arrest.

The conditions were strictly maternal, and the exhaustion of being loved in a way that felt identical to police surveillance was starting to wear thin.

I ignored my lukewarm tea and stared back down at my phone. The contact on the screen was saved under a name I still hadn’t fully forgiven.

🌸 Personal Problem 🌸

Cyan had typed it in himself, right in front of me, smiling with that wide, ridiculous mouth of his as if he were a child naming a new pet.

I had considered changing it back to a standard first and last name at least a dozen times over the past week, but I hadn’t done it.

The fact that my fingers refused to clear the flower emojis sat somewhere deep in my mind, in a corner I firmly chose not to examine.

The memory of how he had even obtained the number was still entirely fresh.

A week ago, Cyan had been leaving my room again, moving with his usual chaotic energy... the kind where he was already halfway out the door and late for whatever mysterious appointment he was always late for.

Then, right at the threshold, he had stopped. He turned back, his expression doing that frustrating thing where genuine, quiet observation suddenly slid into a sharp tease before it could land anywhere serious.

"You look," he had said, his voice dripping with an absurd, mock concern, "like you’ll drop dead if I disappear again."

The defensive reflex had been instant. "I look like a man recovering from a severe viral infection," I told him, keeping my spine perfectly rigid against the pillows. "Which is exactly what I am."

Cyan hadn’t bought it. He didn’t even pretend to. He simply walked back across the room, stopping right beside my bed. "Give me your phone."

I had handed it over. I hadn’t questioned the demand, telling myself it was merely a matter of scientific curiosity... purely objective, purely observational. I wanted to see what a man like him did when handed an open device.

Cyan had typed a sequence rapidly, his own phone instantly buzzing in his jacket pocket to confirm the connection. He saved the contact on his end, then began tapping away on my screen. He tilted the phone slightly away from my line of sight, a small, slow smile building across his face.

"I’m going to save this," he murmured, his purple eyes bright with mischief, "as something very interesting."

"Don’t."

"Too late," he said, his thumbs finishing the final tap.

"What exactly did you save it as?"

But he was already moving toward the door, slipping the device back into my palm. "You’ll see."

There was no proper goodbye, no emotional closure, no polite phrase to signal the end of the interaction. He was just gone, leaving the room significantly quieter and emptier than it had been three seconds prior.

Based on the sheer force of his personality, I had fully expected Cyan to become a daily, invasive presence. He seemed like the kind of person who thrived on persistence and boundary-crossing.

Instead, there had been absolute silence.

One chaotic visit, the exchange of numbers, and then nothing. A whole week of it. There were no texts, no sudden appearances at my door, no more elaborate flower arrangements, and no further commentary on the quality of my gray bedsheets.

I had managed this silence by checking my phone an embarrassing number of times per hour.

I had drafted messages, edited them for tone, and deleted them entirely before my thumb could get anywhere near the send button.

I had constructed elaborate, logical justifications for why it was mechanically impossible for me to text first:

I do not initiate things. This is not a relationship or a pursuit I am interested in maintaining.

This is merely an observational period for a strange man. I am simply gathering data. I am not waiting by the phone. I am absolutely not waiting.

Right now, a three-word draft sat on my screen. I had typed it, deleted it, retyped it with slightly different punctuation, and was about to erase it again when my mother’s voice sharpened behind me.

"—Nicholas, are you even listening to a single word I am saying?"

"Yes," I said, my thumb freezing over the glass.

"Alright, what did I just say?"

I let out a slow breath, the silence that followed answering her question far better than any lie could have managed.

Before my mother could launch into a lecture about my complete lack of respect, the phone in my hand gave a sudden, sharp buzz.

The notification popped up instantly at the top of the glass: 🌸Personal problem 🌸