Page 93 of The Art of Ruin

So I watch.

Not enough to irritate her or make her feel weak. Not enough that she’d call me on it, but I keep track of the small things whether I mean to or not. The way she lowers herself into the car gingerly instead of just sitting. The slight shift after a few minutes, like she’s trying to get ahead of something before it catches up with her. The way she keeps her expression easy, like none of it matters. Like, if she pretends enough, everyone will think she’s fine and leave her alone to get on with it.

That last part irritates me.

Not because it’s impressive.

Because it feels practiced.

Like she’s done this often enough that it doesn’t occur to her to do it any other way.

I don’t like that.

I don’t think too hard about why.

The jet is warm when we step inside, a welcome shift from the cold outside, and she pauses just long enough at the entrance that most people wouldn’t notice it.

I do. This is taking a lot out of her already. Her pain levels might be easing a little, but from everything I read last night on the internet and in forums, her condition isn’t just about the pain. It’s exhaustion, nausea, and a whole host more.

I step in beside her, my hand settling at the small of her back as we move, guiding her through the space, aware of the slight pause before she lets it happen.

“Window?” I ask, glancing back.

She nods. “If that’s okay.”

“It is.”

I adjust the seat before she reaches it, shifting things just slightly so she doesn’t have to, then step aside so she can sit without it feeling like I’m managing the situation. I want to make things easier for her without making her feel vulnerable. I’m trying to be subtle so she doesn’t notice.

She notices.

Of course she does. There isn’t much that gets past this woman, which is why she’s so good with Letty.

But she doesn’t comment, just settles in carefully, pulling her coat in closer around her. “Thanks.”

I offer her a short nod. “You’re welcome.”

For a while, neither of us says much.

The quiet isn’t awkward. It just… sits there between us, different from what it was a few days ago.

More aware.

I find myself glancing over more than I should, not because there’s anything obvious to check, but because I want to be sure she’s still holding steady.

At some point, that stops being the only reason.

She’s turned slightly toward the window, the light catching along the edge of her face in a way that makes the details harder to ignore than they should be. Long lashes casting shadows I hadn’t noticed before, the curve of her mouth softer when she’s not speaking, less guarded. There’s something deliberate in the line of her jaw too, a quiet kind of stubbornness that fits far too well with everything else I’ve already seen. She’s beautiful in that same classic way that Audrey Hepburn was. Not artifice or clever make-up tricks.

I look away a moment later.

Not because there’s anything wrong with the observation, but because of what it makes me feel. For the first time in a long time, I feel attraction on a level that’s more than superficial.

At one point, she shifts again, pressing her hand lightly against the armrest as she adjusts.

“You alright?” I ask before I think better of it.

She looks at me, something flickering across her face, surprise maybe, or just the fact that I asked.