She reveled in the thought that Jamie's needs might keep Jarrod away tonight, granting her a rare peace.

She drifted into a light doze only to be startled awake by a cold sensation on her legs.

“Who's there?"

Her ankle was suddenly seized, and she locked eyes with Roscoe's attractive face, his actions clear.

A wave of shyness washed over her flushed features.

In his usual deep tone, Roscoe murmured, “Let me tend to your wounds, Nicole."

Roscoe grasped Nicole's ankle gently, yet his touch was steady and did not interfere with his task.

Clad in disposable plastic gloves, Roscoe applied an ointment that brought a cooling relief and numbed the pain.

The sensation was so comforting that Nicole found her toes involuntarily curling, her pulse thudding audibly in her ears.

Roscoe's expression remained detached throughout the procedure.

Once he finished with the ointment, he discarded his gloves in the trash bin, along with the porridge Jarrod had brought, without a second glance.

He exited briefly, returning with a thermos in hand, and proceeded to elevate the bed.

"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.