Page 125 of Ghost Ribbon

“Don’t even fucking think about it.”

I pressed my lips together hard. I was trying not to laugh but it was difficult.

He turned back to his work, muttering something under his breath in Russian that I didn’t catch but suspected was unflattering.

It was nice, actually. Sitting here. Watching him do something normal.

It was the most human I had ever seen him.

By the end, he was a mess.

I mean, an absolute mess. There was flour in his hair. There was sauce on his shirt. There was something sticky on his wrist that I didn’t want to identify.

But he was putting a plate in front of me.

Chicken. Cooked properly, with herbs and a glaze that actually smelled good. Rice on the side, fluffy and seasoned. Vegetables, roasted, cut into pieces that were uneven but clearly made with effort. And on the side, on a small separate plate, a single baked strawberry cookie, slightly misshapen but golden and warm.

I stood up and got on my tiptoes, then I reached up and patted his head, my fingers brushing through his flour-dusted hair. “Well done,” I said, flashing him a smile. “You worked hard.”

I sat back down, still smiling, and picked up my fork.

He was still standing there, looking slightly stunned.

The chicken was good. The glaze was a little too sweet, and the herbs were a little uneven, and the rice was slightly overcooked on one side, but it was warm and filling and my stomach accepted it, which was more than I could say for most food these days.

“This is good. Thank you.”

“Are you lying?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No.” I held out my fork, a piece of chicken balanced on the tines, and lifted it toward his mouth. “Try it.”

He leaned forward and took the bite. “I guess it’s not the worst.”

“Not the worst,” I repeated, shaking my head. “High praise from the man covered in egg yolk.”

He looked away but I saw it.

The curve at the corner of his mouth.

The ghost of a smile, breaking through the surface like light through a crack in the dark.

A few hours later he was driving me to the hospital.

This time it wasn’t for me.

Today, the hospital was for Rei.

Two weeks ago, he had been admitted.

When I found out, I had to basically beg Alexei to let me see him.

That wasn’t an exaggeration. I begged. I sat on the edge of his bed with my hands clasped in my lap and my voice cracking around the words please, please, I need to see him, please just take me - and Alexei had stood across the room with his arms folded and his jaw set, his eyes doing that terrible thing where they went flat and immovable, and he had said no three times before I even finished asking.

He had reason.

I was barely starting the new medication, and the side effects were even more ruthless than they were now. I could barely stand. The nausea came in waves. The dizziness hit without warning, tilting the floor sideways. My body was in open revolt, adjusting to the new chemical regime, and Alexei made a very logical argument that dragging me to a hospital while I was in that state was counterproductive at best and dangerous at worst.

He was right but I didn’t care.