“Don’t come in here,” I gasp between heaves.
He comes in anyway. Of course he does.
I feel his hand on my back, warm and steady. He gathers my hair with the other hand, pulling it away from my face.
“I’m fine,” I lie, right before another wave hits.
“Clearly.”
When it finally stops, I slump against the wall, breathing hard. My mouth tastes like death. My eyes are watering. I’m pretty sure I look like a Victorian ghost moments before expiring dramatically on a fainting couch.
Anton hands me a glass of water. I didn’t even see him get it.
I rinse, spit, try to remember what dignity feels like.
“No one told me this part,” I mutter, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “All those pregnancy books talk about ‘morning nausea’ like it’s a mild inconvenience. This is not mild. This is biological warfare.”
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile.
“It’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
I glare at him. “You try growing a human while your body actively rejects food.”
“Fair point.” He crouches beside me, hand still on my back. “What triggered it?”
“The smell of—” I stop. Blink. “Wait. Are youcooking?”
“Yes.”
“You cook?”
"When I want to."
I stare at him. “I’ve been living here for how long, and I’m just now finding out you cook?”
“You never asked.”
“I didn’t think—” I gesture vaguely at him. Tattooed, dangerous, built like he bench-presses cars for fun. “You don’t exactly scream ‘domestic chef.’”
“I have layers.”
“Apparently.”
He helps me stand, steadying me when my legs wobble. I brush my teeth twice, gargle with mouthwash, and still feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.
“Better?” he asks.
“Define better.”
“Can you walk without collapsing?”
“Probably.”
“Good enough.”
He guides me out of the bathroom, hand on my lower back. The smell hits again—stronger now—and my stomach does a warning flip.
