Page 83 of The Art of Ruin

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.”