Page 89 of The Art of Ruin

It’s time to feel like myself again.

Not just functional. Not just… surviving the worst of it.

Actually, like me.

Clean. Awake. Like I’ve shaken some of this off instead of just waiting for it to loosen its grip.

A shower will help.

It always helps.

Even if it takes more out of me than it gives back, there’s something about the heat, the routine of it, the small normality that makes everything feel a little less like I’m stuck in it.

I push myself to my feet before I can overthink it, steadying myself when the room tilts slightly, waiting it out until everything settles back into place.

“You’ve done worse,” I mutter under my breath because, apparently, I talk to myself now, which is probably a sign I’ve been cooped up too long. Except this time I haven’t been alone, and that makes me smile.

The hallway is quiet when I step out, the air cooler than in the bedroom, grounding in a way that makes me feel a little more present, a little less like I’ve just woken up inside someone else’s body.

He’s in my small kitchen.

Because of course he is.

Adriano stands with his back to me, sleeves rolled, doing something at the counter with the same focused stillness he seems to bring to everything, like even making coffee is something that requires his full attention.

He turns the second I step further into the room, his gaze landing on me and holding just long enough that I become very aware of how I must look—barefoot, slightly pale, probably still a little slower than usual.

“You’re up,” he says.

“I am,” I reply, leaning my hip lightly against the counter because it’s easier than standing completely upright. “I’m going to shower.”

His expression doesn’t shift much, but I can see the calculation behind it, the quick assessment he does before he speaks.

“You shouldn’t be on your feet for long.”

“It’s a shower,” I say, already pushing away from the counter because if I stay there, he’s going to keep talking and I don’t have the patience for it this morning. “I’m not planning on running laps. And I feel gross.”

“It still requires effort, and you don’t look gross.”

I think there was a compliment in there somewhere, but I can’t be sure.

“So does existing,” I shoot back, glancing at him over my shoulder as I head toward the hallway. “I’m managing that just fine.”

“I’ll stay close.”

I stop mid-step, turning back fully this time, because, of course, he would say that. “You don’t need to do that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“I’ve showered alone for, I don’t know, my entire adult life,” I say, folding my arms, already feeling the beginnings of a headache that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with him being… him. “I think I can handle it.”

He doesn’t move, just looks at me in that steady, unhurried way that somehow makes arguing feel like you’re the only one expending energy.

“You struggled to walk to the bathroom yesterday,” he says evenly. “You’re not doing this without someone nearby.”

“Nearby,” I repeat, because apparently that’s where we are now.

“Yes.”