“Nicole, would you prefer to feed yourself, or shall I assist?” he inquired, his politeness unwavering.
Nicole, still somewhat dazed from the treatment, only registered his question when he repeated it. She reached out slowly.
“I can manage on my own.”
As her fingers brushed against his, Roscoe insisted, “Stay still.
I’ll handle this.”
Roscoe set up a small table, expertly transferred the porridge into a bowl, and fetched a spoon.
Nicole couldn’t help but notice the pristine beauty of his hands, his nails short and clean, his veins subtly pronounced against his clenched fists, signaling strength.
Her cheeks flushed with heat.
This wasn’t the first time he had tended to her wounds.
As Roscoe handed her the spoon, Nicole’s hunger surged, especially for the shrimp-corn porridge, her favored dish. She began to eat with an earnest appetite.
After the meal, Roscoe cleaned up the table and returned the bed to its original position.
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“You should rest now, Nicole. I’ll be here to look after you,” he offered.
But Nicole’s head shook in denial.
“No, Roscoe.”
Roscoe’s gaze was intense as he watched her silently.
Nicole turned her face away, not daring to look at him. She said, “My father’s support for your education was one thing. You don’t owe me for the help you’ve given. You see, anyone entangled with me lately seems to suffer.”
Roscoe listened without a flicker of emotion across his face.
When Nicole paused, he voiced his thoughts, “Nicole, I was disheartened when you didn’t recognize me before.”
Nicole recalled their encounter at the hospital’s safe corridor, but her mind was a haze back then, thanks to Jarrod, leaving no space for Roscoe’s image.
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The last she’d seen Roscoe, he was a young teen of fifteen, one of many in a crowd where her father had taken her to aid the underprivileged, and Roscoe hardly stood out.
She didn’t remember him.
Six years had passed by. Now, Roscoe was an intern at the hospital.
Gazing down at her, Roscoe probed, “Nicole, do you love that man?”
Her response came swift and sure.