13. Adriano
The annex kitchen is 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.
I don’t need to look at her to know what she’s doing; my attention is already half on her.
The pauses between movements are enough to make me pause; the desire to jump up and help her makes concentration impossible.
The way she takes another spoonful, then waits.
The way she adjusts the blanket in small, careful increments instead of one clean motion.
Every shift measured, every decision deliberate, like she’s already calculated what each movement will cost her.
There’s no uncertainty in it. That’s what stands out to me.
She isn’t reacting. She isn’t figuring it out as she goes. She already knows exactly what this is, how it behaves, what she can and can’t push through.
This is so common for her that she has routines and best practices already in place.
I glance up briefly, just long enough to confirm what I already know.
She’s stopped again, the spoon resting loosely in her hand while she waits for something to pass before she tries another bite.
Then I look back at the screen, feeling helpless.
This is just part of life for her.
That becomes clearer the longer I sit here.
Not something she explains. Not something she announces. Just something she adjusts around, like it’s built into everything else.
I don’t like that.
Not because it’s ineffective. It clearly isn’t. She’s managing it with a level of precision most people wouldn’t have the patience for.
But because she’s doing it alone.
There’s nothing in the way she handles it that suggests she expects anyone else to step in. No hesitation. No reaching for support. No instinct to hand it off or even share the weight of it.
Just quiet adaptation.
Like it’s easier that way.
Or like it’s always been that way.
I shift slightly in the chair, my focus returning to the laptop even as my attention remains split.
There are systems for managing things like this. Structures that remove some of the burden, that distribute it so it doesn’t fall entirely on one person to absorb and adjust around.
Instead, she’s reduced it to something contained. Private. Managed within the smallest possible space.
Efficient, in its own way.
But unnecessary.
And the fact that she treats it as the default suggests she stopped expecting anything different a long time ago.
I find that admirable and unacceptable all at once.
I close the email I’ve been staring at without reading and lean back slightly, my gaze drifting toward her again before I can stop it.
She’s taken another bite.
Slower this time.
Still controlled.
Still working through it without comment.
I don’t say anything.
But I don’t look away immediately, either.
This isn’t something I can fix.
That much is obvious.
But it is something I can maybe help her with for now.
That will have to be enough.
“You don’t need to stay,” she says again after a while, her voice softer now, less resistant than before. “I’ll be fine.”
“You’ve said that already.”
“And you’ve ignored it.”
“Yes.”
She huffs out a quiet breath at that, something between amusement and resignation. “You always this stubborn?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“That must be exhausting for everyone else.”
“They get over it.”
She glances at me then, properly this time, her eyes narrowing slightly as if she’s trying to decide whether I’m serious. “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
That does get a reaction—a small, reluctant smile that she doesn’t quite manage to hide before she looks back at her food.
It’s subtle, but it’s there, and I notice it.
More than I should.
She finishes about half the bowl before setting it aside, leaning back carefully against the headboard again, her eyes drifting toward the television in the corner without actually turning it on.
“What do you usually watch?” she asks after a while, the question coming without preamble.
“Nothing,” I reply.
“That’s not true. Please tell me you watch some television. Even robots like you need downtime.”
I roll my lips, fighting the smirk at her words. Looks like the food gave her some fight back at least. “I don’t have the time.”
“And if you did have time?”
I consider that. “Documentaries,” I say after a moment. “If anything.”
She makes a soft sound of acknowledgment. “That tracks.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you seem like the kind of person who watches things to learn something from them, not to relax.”
“Everything we do in life should have a purpose.”
She shifts slightly, adjusting the blanket. “I watch things to switch my brain off.”
“That implies you switch it on sometimes.”
She glances at me again, eyes flashing with anger before she sees me smirk. Teasing her and making her smile somehow makes me feel less helpless. “If I left this brain on 24/7, it wouldn’t be fair to the rest of the world. The bulb in this brain is very bright.”
Seeing her like this eases that tight knot of worry that had lodged itself in my chest and stayed there since I found her yesterday.
“Ah, yes, a public service. I see.”
“Exactly.”
I don’t respond to that.
Instead, I watch as she reaches for the water I left beside her, her movements still slow but steadier than they’d been earlier. The pain pill I gave her to take with her food must be kicking in.
She’s managing it.
Just with less resistance than before.
She takes a sip, then lets her head fall back against the cushion, eyes drifting toward the television across the room without turning it on.
“You’re going to sit there working all day?” she asks after a moment, her voice quieter now, less guarded.
“I have things that require my attention,” I reply, not looking up from the screen.
“That wasn’t really an answer.”
“It was sufficient.”
I hear the faint shift of fabric as she adjusts the blanket again.
“You could at least pretend to be a normal person for an hour,” she says. “Put something on.”
“I am a normal person.”
“Mm.” There’s a pause, then, “That’s still up for debate.”
I glance up at that.
She’s watching me now, one eyebrow lifted slightly, like she’s waiting to see if I’ll engage or retreat.
I consider ignoring it.
Then I close the laptop. “What would you suggest?” I ask, grabbing the remote and taking a seat beside her on her bed. Not under the covers, but next to her so I can see the television better.
Her expression shifts, not quite surprise but close enough that I notice, and again I fight the smile.
“That was easier than I expected,” she says.
“You didn’t think I’d back down from a challenge, did you, Casey?”
She huffs out a small breath, reaching to take the remote from my hand, careful not to let our fingers touch. “Okay, let’s see… do you strike me as someone who watches terrible reality TV, or pretends he’s above it?”
“I don’t pretend. I am above it.”
“Right,” she says dryly. “Of course you don’t.”