I silence the phone and set it aside.
The truth is, I could call in favors right now. Make a few phone calls, and by tomorrow morning, Lily's problems would disappear. Her bakery would be packed with customers. Money would flow in steadily.
But that's not how this works.
She has to accept it. Accept me. Not as some distant benefactor pulling strings from the shadows, but as something more permanent.
As hers.
The stairs creak. She's coming up for her mid-morning break, the one she thinks I don't notice. The one where she checks on me, pretends it's casual, then disappears back downstairs before I can point out that she's worried.
She appears in the doorway, hair pulled back, flour dusting her forearms. She looks tired. She always looks tired.
"How are you feeling?" she asks.
"Better."
It's what I always say. She never believes me, but she doesn't push.
"I brought you breakfast." She sets a plate on the coffee table. It holds some kind of pastry and some fruit. Then fetches a glass of water to place beside it.
“Thank you,” I say, before asking, “How are you?”
"I'm fine." She says it in a way most people would probably accept, but I can tell it’s a lie.
I scoff. "No, you're not."
She crosses her arms, defensive. I can see the exhaustion in the set of her shoulders, the shadows under her eyes. She's running on fumes and stubbornness.
"Sit," I say. Not a request.
"I have to open up—"
"Sit. Eat with me. Then go back to work."
For a moment, I think she'll argue. But something in my voice makes her pause. That edge of command I can't quite hide, even when I'm trying to be gentle.
She sits. Takes half the pastry without a word.
We eat in silence. I watch her from the corner of my eye, cataloging the small tells. The way she picks at the food. The way she keeps glancing toward the door like she's about to be caught doing something she shouldn’t be.
"How long have you been struggling?" I ask.
"What?"
"The bakery. How long has it been like this?"
She sets down the sandwich. "That's none of your business."
I smile. It’s not polite. It’s my ‘I know that you’re lying and we can do this the hard way if you prefer,’ smile. "You made it my business when you opened the door."
"That's not how this works."
"Isn't it?" I put enough challenge in my voice to make her eyes flare with anger. Or frustration.
Her jaw tightens. "You're leaving soon. Two more days, and you're healed enough to go. Whatever you think this is, it's temporary."
"Is that what you want? For me to leave?"
