Page 81 of The Art of Ruin

The annex kitchenis designed for efficiency. Everything is where it should be, arranged with the kind of precision that flows without thought, which is exactly how I prefer it. It means I don’t have to consider what I’m doing, only the outcome, and right now that’s the only part that matters.

Something light that she’ll actually eat that won’t make the nausea worse.

I open the refrigerator and pause briefly, scanning what’s there before settling on something simple enough not to require much effort on her part. Soup is straightforward. Toast even more so. Between the two, it should be sufficient.

She has a host of fresh fruit in there, as well as a huge bar of chocolate I don’t recognize. Not unusual. I don’t eat a lot of candy, but it’s one more insight into this woman.

It doesn’t take long. A carton of chicken soup in the pan to warm, wholewheat bread in the toaster.

The process is familiar, controlled, and, for once, it serves a purpose outside of routine. I set the tray together without overthinking it—bowl, spoon, water, tea—and carry it through to the bedroom, pushing the door open with my shoulder.

She hasn’t moved far from where I left her. Still on the left side of the bed, blanket pulled around her, the heating pad in place, though her eyes are open now, tracking the sound of my return before I fully step into the room.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” she says as I set the tray down on the bedside cabinet.

“I know, but I wanted to. Now stop arguing.”

That earns me a look.

Not sharp, okay, not too sharp, but definitely tired.

I shift the cabinet slightly closer to her without asking, positioning it so she doesn’t have to reach.

“Sit up,” I say.

She exhales quietly, like she’s deciding whether to argue, then pushes herself upright with more care than she had earlier.

I don’t comment on it, even if everything in me wants to reach out and help her or tell her off for being so stubborn and trying to deal with this alone. Instead, I hand her the spoon once she’s settled, waiting until she has a steady grip before stepping back.

“You’re staying?” she asks after a second, glancing toward the door like she expects me to leave once the immediate task is done.

“Yes.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I’m aware.”

She studies me for a moment, then shakes her head slightly. “You’re very difficult to argue with.”

“That’s intentional. I wouldn’t survive Letty if I were a pushover.”

That almost gets a smile.

Almost.

She takes a small spoonful, testing it before committing to more, and I watch just long enough to confirm she’s going to eat before moving toward the chair near the window.

My laptop is where I left it earlier. I managed to step out while she was asleep, long enough to collect what I needed—laptop, chargers, a quick shower—before returning to find her in much the same position I’d left her in.

Curled slightly inward, hand resting on her abdomen, guarded.

Not resting in a meaningful way, but an exhausted, pain-filled one.

That hasn’t changed.

I pull the laptop onto my lap and open it, letting the screen come to life while I settle into the chair. Work arranges itself quickly—emails first, then a call I let ring out, then back again—but none of it fully takes hold.

My attention doesn’t stay where I put it.