There was a rustle—the sound of Sage moving closer, her warmth palpable in the dark. Elizabeth kept her eyes averted. A mercy, really, for both of them. Because if she looked at Sage right now, she might see the truth reflected in those honey-brown eyes—that she was a monster, that she was incapable of the kind of love Sage deserved, that she was destroying them both through sheer narcissistic need.
"I worry about you," Sage said, and Elizabeth could hear the weight of accumulated disappointment in her voice. "But sometimes it's like you want me worried. Like if I care, you win. Like my feelings are just another variable in your calculations."
She's not wrong.
The thought surfaced before Elizabeth could suppress it, and with it came a wave of something uncomfortably close to shame. Because Sage had just articulated exactly what Elizabeth had been doing—using Sage's care as proof of her own superiority, as evidence that she could make someone love her despite being fundamentally unloveable.
"Sage. Please." The word came out more desperate than Elizabeth intended, cracking at the edges with uncharacteristic vulnerability.
Sage hovered, close enough to reach but not touching, the ghost of her affection lingering in the air between them. "When you let me see you in pain—not just now, but ever—I think that's the most honest you've ever been with me."
That's not honesty. That's failure. That's weakness.
But Elizabeth was too exhausted to maintain the lie. The migraine had stripped away her defences, leaving her raw and exposed in ways that terrified her.
"Sometimes I wish you'd just… let go. Even once," Sage continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "Not the calculated vulnerability you show me when you want something. Real vulnerability. The kind that doesn't come with conditions or expectations."
Elizabeth wanted to retort, to dismiss the feeling as irrelevance, vulnerability as a fool's luxury. But her defences were exhausted. The pills, the pain, the darkness—it all tilted the world sideways.
She let out a low groan, burying her face in her hands, letting Sage see without calculation. "It hurts more than I want to admit," she said, half to herself. The words felt like defeat, like surrender, like everything she'd spent her adult life refusing to become.
Sage's hand rested lightly on her shoulder. Not grasping, not demanding, just... present. "Then don't admit it. Just be here with me. Let me help."
And Elizabeth heard the strain in Sage's voice, how close she was to breaking. It was enough to silence the cruel part of her mind that wanted only to maintain control.
They sat there, the only sound the soft rush of London traffic far below and their own careful breathing. Sage did not try to fix her or fill the silence with platitudes. She was just present—and against her will, Elizabeth found comfort in the nearness, in the quiet, and in the fact that she didn't have to perform.
For minutes—or was it an hour?—they existed like this, Sage's patience stretching just long enough, Elizabeth's pain consuming enough to dismantle her practised indifference.
Sage's Perspective
Sage had been sitting on that sofa for three hours, watching the takeout go cold, refreshing her phone every few minutes for some sign that Elizabeth remembered she existed.
'This is the last time,' she'd told herself at hour two. If she cancels again, if she treats me like an afterthought again, I'm done.
But when Elizabeth had walked through that door—pale, trembling, obviously in pain—Sage's resolve had crumbled like it always did. Because this was what she'd been waiting for: not the confident CEO who dominated boardrooms, but the woman underneath. The real Elizabeth, stripped of her armour, forced into vulnerability by sheer physical agony.
She's more real when she's hurting than when she's winning.
The thought should have disturbed Sage more than it did. What kind of relationship requires one person's suffering for moments of genuine connection? What did it say about her that she was grateful for Elizabeth's migraine, because it meant Elizabeth couldn't maintain her usual walls?
She watched Elizabeth now, face buried in her hands, shoulders trembling with exhaustion and pain. And Sage recognised this moment for what it was—a test. Not of Elizabeth, but of herself.
She could leave. Should leave, probably. Walk out that door and let Elizabeth face her pain alone; let her understand that relationships require reciprocity and that Sage wasn't an acquisition to be collected and controlled.
But she'd tried that calculation three times before, standing at Elizabeth's door with her hand on the handle, telling herself that this time would be different. And three times she'd stayed, because underneath the mechanical coldness, there was something else. Something that Elizabeth showed only in moments like this, when she was too exhausted to maintain her performance.
Collecting people, Sage thought, remembering that conversation at the auction house. That's what I said I did, and Elizabeth looked at me like I'd revealed something she'd been hiding her whole life.
The comment had stunned Elizabeth—Sage remembered that clearly now. For just a fraction of a second, Elizabeth's perfect composure had cracked, and something almost like recognition had flickered across her face. As if Sage had accidentally named the exact thing Elizabeth was doing to her.
She collects people through their words. I collect people through... Sage couldn't finish the thought. Through their moments of weakness? Through their dependence on her care?
The parallel was uncomfortable. Maybe they deserved each other—two collectors of human connection, neither quite capable of genuine intimacy, both approaching love like it was a strategic acquisition.
But watching Elizabeth now, seeing her finally, finally allow herself to be seen in pain without calculation, Sage felt something shift in her chest. Not love—she'd felt love for Elizabeth almost from the beginning. This was something more complicated. Recognition, maybe. The understanding that Elizabeth wasn't capable of normal affection, that the mechanical distance wasn't cruelty but limitation.
She's trying, Sage realised. In her own broken way, she's trying to let me in. This is as close as she can get.
The thought should have been depressing. Instead, it felt almost like hope.
"Sometimes I wish you'd just… let go," Sage said quietly. "Not the calculated vulnerability you show me when you want something. Real vulnerability. The kind that doesn't come with conditions."
And she saw Elizabeth hear the words, saw them land like physical blows. Saw the exact moment Elizabeth's defences crumbled and she was just... a person. In pain, exhausted, finally honest about both.
"It hurts more than I want to admit," Elizabeth whispered, and Sage's chest tightened at the raw honesty of it.
This was why she stayed. Not for the calculated performances or the strategic gestures, but for these rare moments when Elizabeth was too tired to maintain her armour. When she was just a woman in pain, finally willing to accept comfort.
Sage rested her hand lightly on Elizabeth's shoulder. "Then don't admit it. Just be here with me."