Page 72 of The Art of Ruin

Adriano sighs and brushes his hand through his hair, grasping the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant you look exhausted and sick.”

“I am exhausted,” I admit.

His gaze flicks over me once more—oversized tee, bare feet, the heating pad abandoned on the sofa behind me like evidence I forgot to hide.

Then, more quietly, “What’s actually going on?”

For a second, I consider lying again.

Flu.

Virus.

Something temporary and uncomplicated.

But another wave builds low in my abdomen, sharper this time, and I close my eyes briefly against it.

When I open them, he’s closer than before.

Not crowding me.

Just there, his hands lifting like he wants to touch me.

“It’s endometriosis,” I say finally. “Usually it’s controlled.”

Something shifts across his face—not pity, not alarm. Just immediate understanding that this is bigger than a bad day.

“And this happens often?”

“No.” I shake my head. “Not like this. Stress can trigger flares sometimes.”

Silence settles between us for a moment.

Then he reaches for the door gently and pushes it shut behind him. “You should sit down.”

“I was sitting before you arrived.”

“Then let’s get you back to doing that.”

Despite everything, a tired laugh slips out of me. “You always this bossy when people are ill?”

“Only when they’re trying to pretend they aren’t.”

I hold his gaze for a second longer, then shake my head slightly, too tired to argue the point properly, and turn back toward the couch. Each step back feels heavier than the last, but I manage it, lowering myself down carefully, adjusting the heating pad without thinking as I settle.

He watches all of it, hovering close, hands flexing at his sides like he wants to do something to help me.

Every movement, every adjustment is catalogued as he crouches beside the couch. “You’ve taken something to help?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Painkillers.”

“Which ones?”

I hesitate, just for a second. “Over the counter.”