Curtis's heart skipped a beat.
He turned to look at Dakota, seeing her turn her head away slightly after taking his hand.
Curtis looked down at her, "Did you just grab my hand first?"
Dakota quickly tried to pull her hand away, her ears turning a faint red, "Then we won't hold hands."
But Curtis tightened his grip, "Once I hold it, it's mine. Kota, you've missed your chance."
Actually, Dakota didn't want to run anymore.
From the moment she held Curtis's hand, she had decided to hold onto him tightly.
Dakota went back to the dining room to continue eating the burgers.
Compared to before, her appetite had noticeably improved. It was undeniable that Curtis knew her tastes well—the cheeseburger was perfectly juicy, and the toppings were all her favorites.
After finishing the burgers, Dakota also had the watermelon that Curtis bought for her.
Seeing the hearts of all the watermelons in the supermarket packed neatly in the box, Dakota felt truly cherished.
The little wishes she had yearned for but never reached were now easily presented to her.
She shouldn't dwell on the love she couldn't get.
She should cherish the present.
……
Summer was coming to an end.
As the heat and cicadas faded, the evening breeze in J City began to carry hints of early autumn's chill.
The National Museum planned to start trial operations before the end of the year, which meant the bas-relief mural artists needed to speed up their work, aiming to complete the first exhibition hall before the trial period.
Dakota's back pain had increased recently.
Especially as the weather turned colder in autumn, she often felt soreness after standing for a long time, so Curtis hired a physical therapist to help her relieve the pain each evening.
After all, there were limits to Curtis's massage skills.
The therapist's techniques were more professional.
After each session, Dakota indeed felt much better, and the next day, she didn't feel as uncomfortable after standing for long periods at work.
That evening,
the therapist came as usual to treat Dakota's back.
Curtis had specifically hired a female therapist, and men were not allowed during the sessions.
Midway through, Dakota fell asleep, feeling comfortable.
The therapist helped her adjust her clothes without waking her and quietly left the room.
Curtis was lazily leaning against the hallway wall, playing with his phone, a cigarette held between his lips, half-hearted about lighting it.
Hearing the bedroom door open, Curtis reflexively raised his hand, using two fingers to take the cigarette out.
"Shall we go?" he asked.
The therapist nodded, smiling sympathetically, "But it's clear that your wife has been really tired lately. She fell asleep during the session, and I didn't wake her."
Curtis nodded.
He knew being a mural artist was hard work, but he had no right to interfere with Dakota's job. Even if he could afford to support her completely, he didn't think she should stay at home like a trophy wife.
"Can she fully recover from this condition?" Curtis half-squinted, looking toward the slightly ajar door.
The therapist looked troubled, "It's difficult. This kind of damage seems to have occurred when she was underage, irreversible. Regular therapy can help, but she should minimize activities that strain her back."
"For example, standing or sitting for long periods, and also..."
Curtis listened intently, taking it all in, until the therapist added, "Sexual activity should also be limited, avoiding positions that might strain her back."
Cough—
Curtis was suddenly choked.
He wasn't smoking, but it felt like smoke had rushed down his throat, making him cough and blush from his ears to his neck.
Reagan gave him a slight scolding glance.
She couldn't help but laugh, "Mr. Pineda, after being married for so long, you still blush when talking about this?"
Curtis looked slightly awkward.
He lowered his gaze, not saying anything, just moving his Adam's apple slightly, and for some reason, he visualized Dakota straddling him, his hands on her waist, doing certain actions...
Curtis turned his face away, responding, "Yeah, I'll be mindful."
The therapist nodded, relieved.
Thinking that Curtis was so considerate to hire a therapist for his wife, she believed he wouldn't overlook these minor precautions.
If he said he'd be careful, he would be.
Little did she know...
The two hadn't shared a bed yet.
Although they had progressed to sharing the same bed, he merely held her while sleeping, not daring to move his hands.
The therapist left.
Curtis pushed open the door and entered the room.
The French-style cream-colored decor clashed with his sharp black attire and rebellious demeanor, yet it created a strangely appealing contrast.
Dakota had just woken up.
She woke mid-sleep, sensing that the therapy was over and hearing vague conversations outside. Though she couldn't make out what was said, she had come out of her light slumber.
The voices outside didn't last long.
Dakota rubbed her sleepy eyes, about to get out of bed to check, when she saw Curtis enter the room.
He wore a satin black shirt, the high-quality fabric making him seem like an unapproachable piece of ink jade with an untamable aura.
But as he entered the pink-white room, his demeanor softened, "Awake?"
"Yeah." Dakota nodded, "Did the therapy finish? I must have fallen asleep, what did you guys talk about?"
"It's done." Curtis replied softly, "The therapist mentioned some precautions, telling me to remind you to avoid prolonged sitting or standing, and—"
He abruptly stopped.
Dakota looked at him, "Anything else?"
Curtis suddenly recalled the therapist's words and the improper images he conjured up.
His ears flushed, making him look innocent, a stark contrast to his usual rebelliousness.
Curtis's Adam's apple moved slightly, "Nothing."
Dakota looked at him quizzically, feeling that he didn't seem like someone who had "nothing" to say.
Curtis casually shifted his gaze, smoothly changing the subject, "Want some midnight snack?"
Dakota: "..."
In fact, Dakota didn't usually have midnight snacks, she was very strict about her figure and skincare routine.
But Curtis suggested it.
So she didn't refuse.
Curtis went to the kitchen and cooked a bowl of shredded chicken noodle soup. They sat facing each other in the dining room, the steam creating a hazy, intimate atmosphere.
It was nearly eleven o'clock.
On any other day, they would both be getting ready for bed by now.
But today, Curtis was taking his time. Despite having a normal-sized portion, he was picking at the noodles one by one, unwilling to finish his meal and go to bed.
