The answer is a blur: coffee, water—nothing that counts.
I blink, and the edges of the room smear again. My eyes sting.
Ivan returns with a first aid kit and a cloth.
He sits beside me and reaches for my hands without asking.
I should pull away, but I don't.
The cloth is warm. He wipes my palms slowly, careful where the skin is split. He pulls a small shard free that I didn't even feel lodged there. The sting makes my shoulders jump.
His fingers are steady.
He doesn't speak; he just cleans the blood away, applies antiseptic, wraps gauze around my palm, and tapes it down tight enough to hold.
His touch isn't gentle in a soft way. It's deliberate. He is choosing exactly how much pressure to use, refusing to let me handle this alone.
I hate how my body reacts. I hate the way my shoulders ease without permission. I hate how my breath slows because he is close.
A beep sounds again.
Ivan finishes the second hand, stands, moves to the microwave, pulls something out, and plates it.
He sets the dish in front of me.
Pasta. Steam rising. Garlic and herbs climbing straight into my face.
My stomach cramps so hard it hurts.
"Eat," Ivan says.
I look at him, then at the plate.
"I'm not hungry, sir."
"I don't care." He nudges the plate closer. "Eat."
His voice drops—not louder, just lower. The tone my body knows even when my mind is refusing.
My hand picks up the fork.
I watch it happen as if I'm outside myself. The fork twists pasta up and lifts it.
The first bite hits my tongue, and my throat clenches.
The flavor is a punch: garlic, butter, salt—real food.
My body responds like it's been starving.
I take another bite. Then another. Faster now. My mouth works, my jaw aching with the simple effort of chewing. It is humiliating how desperate I feel.
Ivan watches me.
He sits still, close enough that I can feel warmth in the air between us. He tracks the way I eat, as if trying to decide what broke first—my pride or my biology.
When the plate is empty, I stop.
I stare at the last smear of sauce.
