Hindi na ako nagtaka pa nang magising sa ibang silid kinabukasan. I could barely remember everything that happened last night pero nasisiguro kong hindi ako ibinalik ni Icen sa aking silid. I groaned, sitting up slowly. My head throbbed. What the hell happened?
I shifted, realizing I was wearing only a soft hotel robe, the fabric loose around me. I rubbed my temples, trying to chase away the headache when, suddenly, he appeared—seemingly out of nowhere.
Nahagip ng aking mga mata si Icen na nakatayo sa kabilang bahagi ng silid. His blonde hair was slightly damp, droplets clinging to his skin. A white towel hung low on his hips, far too low, barely holding on, exposing the sharp cut of his hips and the hard planes of his abs. He looked freshly showered, steam still clinging to him like he had stepped out just moments ago. And, of course, he looked infuriatingly perfect.
"Morning," he drawled as if he wasn't standing half-naked in front of me.
I snapped my gaze away, heat rising to my cheeks. "Um... morning."
Damn him. Why did he have to look like that?
Bakla 'yan, Chanel. Bakla!
"How are you feeling?" he asked, his tone shifting to one of mild concern as he moved toward a walk-in closet nearby, disappearing for a moment to grab something.
Hindi ko masagot ang tanong na iyon dahil hindi ako sigurado kung ano bang nararamdaman ko o kung ano bang dapat kong maramdaman.
"I ordered room service," he called out. "Figured you'd need it."
I blinked, my mind still hazy as I glanced around the room, trying to get my bearings. The space was large and luxurious, the kind of suite only someone who owned the hotel would stay in. Of course. So this was his suite.
"I—uh... yeah, I'm okay," I mumbled, though the confusion still lingered in my mind. My gaze roamed the room, trying to piece things together. A small tray with coffee and water sat on a nearby table, and a cart with covered dishes was waiting in the corner.
Icen reappeared from the closet, holding a plain white shirt in his hand. He was still in the damn towel, the fabric low enough to make me question if it would slip off with just one wrong move.
"Oh," he added casually, "your clothes are in the bathroom. I had them washed and dry-cleaned."
I opened my mouth to say something—anything—but no words came out. My throat felt dry, and all I could do was sit there, staring at him like a deer in headlights.
He frowned slightly, noticing my silence.
"Are you okay?" he asked, walking toward me with the shirt still in hand. That towel didn't even budge.
Before I could protest, he knelt beside the bed, his fingers brushing against my forehead, then my neck, checking for any signs of fever. The touch was warm, soothing, and frustratingly intimate.
"Wait—" I whispered, but he was already there, his brows furrowed slightly with concentration as his palm lingered on my skin.
"No fever," he murmured softly, more to himself than to me. "Good."
His hand stayed on my neck a moment longer, his thumb brushing lightly, sending an unexpected shiver down my spine.
I swallowed hard, trying to steady my breath. Why the hell did this feel more dangerous than anything from last night?
"You sure you're okay?" he asked again, his voice low and gentle, his blue eyes watching me carefully.
"I... yeah. I'm fine," I managed, though the words came out shakier than I intended.
