His Belated Love for the Abandoned Ex-Wife Chapter 271: A Small Burn

Iris pressed her lips together and didn't respond.

Julian's thumb brushed gently over the inside of her wrist—a spot that had always been sensitive for her.

A quiet warmth spread through her chest.

"The lab isn't safe right now," he said, his voice low and careful. "You're pregnant... your reflexes might not be as sharp."

"So?" Iris looked up at him. "Are you saying I can't go back?"

Julian's throat moved slightly, but in the end he only let out a soft sigh. "Do you need to see a doctor?"

"No." She withdrew her hand. "It's just a small burn."

But Julian was already heading out of the bathroom. He returned a moment later with a first-aid kit, knelt down on one knee in front of her, and carefully began to apply ointment with a cotton swab. His touch was so gentle, as though she were something fragile he was afraid of breaking.

Iris watched the thick sweep of his lashes and felt a faint, unfamiliar pang inside. This stubborn, almost obsessive man suddenly seemed unsure of himself—like a kid who knew he'd messed up.

"All done." He lifted his gaze to meet hers. For a second they both just stared, until Julian's ears tinted faintly pink. "You must be hungry. Freya left some food in the fridge—I'll go warm it up."

He started to rise, but Iris spoke without thinking, her voice barely above a whisper. "Julian... thank you."

His back went visibly still.

He turned slowly, eyes bright with something like disbelief, and the corners of his mouth lifted in an unplanned, soft curl. "You're... you're welcome."

He stumbled over the reply, looking as pleased as a child handed an unexpected treat.

In that moment, it hit Iris—just a little kindness from her could light him up like that.

*****

Iris slept restlessly. The burn on her hand throbbed on and off, and the baby inside her seemed to sense her discomfort, shifting and kicking every so often.

Half-asleep, she heard the door open softly.

Julian's silhouette filled the doorway, moonlight outlining his tall frame.

He moved quietly to the bedside, took her injured hand in his, and checked it over.

Then came the cool touch of ointment—he was reapplying it.

Iris kept her eyes closed, pretending to be asleep, letting herself feel the careful tenderness of his fingers.

After he finished, he didn't leave right away. Instead, a feather-light kiss brushed her fingertip—so soft, so cautious, as if he feared waking her.

"I'm sorry..."

She heard him whisper, his voice thick with what sounded like regret and devotion. "I just... I can't stand the thought of losing you."

Iris' heart clenched suddenly.

Julian drew the blanket up around her gently, stood watching for a few long seconds, and then slipped out.

The moment the door clicked shut, she opened her eyes. Her fingertip still seemed to tingle with the warmth of his lips.

She wasn't made of stone.

No matter how guarded she'd kept her heart, Julian's tenderness had slowly been melting it.

Being loved like this... it felt good. It felt safe.

Yet all along, what she'd been pushing back against wasn't really him—it was everything that came with him. The people around him, the world he moved in.

Those months confined to the house had, ironically, been some of the most peaceful of her life.

No calls from her mom asking for money, no colleagues stirring up drama at work, no awkward social gatherings to navigate.

It was calm. Uncomplicated. She could lose herself in her research every day and feel completely absorbed.

Julian cooked for her tirelessly, trying new recipes, making sure she ate well. If she craved something, he'd go get it—no question, no complaint.

He worked from home most days, handling meetings over video calls, and never missed a single prenatal appointment.

Now seven months along, her belly grew heavier each day. Sitting too long made her back and legs ache; her calves cramped without warning, and her feet swelled up.

He'd fill a basin with warm water to soak her feet, massage her legs, rub her lower back.

One night she mentioned a craving for fried pickles—he drove through a rainstorm across town to find a place still open.

When her belly grew too round for her to easily wash her hair, he did it for her, gently working in the shampoo, then drying it strand by strand.

Lately, he'd started sketching layouts for the nursery.

*****

Sunlight spilled through the balcony glass doors.

Iris woke with a sharp gasp—her calf had cramped again.

"Ah—it hurts!" She tried to stretch her leg, but the pain only tightened.

Tears welled in her eyes as she called out, "Julian...!"

He hurried in, still in his pajamas. "Iris, what is it?"

"My calf... it's cramping really bad." She was curled on her side.

Julian carefully lifted her pale calf, bent it gently, and used the technique the doctor had shown him to ease the muscle.

Once the pain faded from her face, he sat cross-legged on the bed, rested her leg across his thigh, and began to massage it slowly.

The discomfort ebbed away. Iris closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the rhythm of his hands, so soothed she could almost drift back to sleep.

She'd grown used to Julian's care—had even started to rely on it.

But then it struck her: when you're loved this thoroughly, protected this completely, it's easy to lose your own strength. Easy to lean too hard.

This happiness scared her.

She was afraid that if it ever vanished—if one day all this warmth was gone—she wouldn't be able to face the world as steadily as she once had.

"Still hurting?" Julian asked quietly.

Iris shook her head. "No. It's better now."

He lifted her other foot onto his lap, working his thumbs gently over the arch. After a moment, he said softly, "Iris... would you let me put a camera in here? In the bedroom."