I crossed to the bedside chair, set the soup on the tray table. The lemon bars beside it. Yellow wax paper cheerful against sterile white.
"Brought dinner."
"You didn't have to do that." He reached for the soup, anyway. Hands steadier than this afternoon. "They feed me here. Rubber chicken and all."
His laugh scraped.
I didn't join. Just watched him pretend. Watched the careful way he lifted the container. The slight tremor he thought I wouldn't notice. The pause before speaking—like words took effort he was rationing.
"Doctor says I can probably go home tomorrow."
Probably.
That qualifier hung between us.
"That's good."
"Stop looking at me like that." He set the soup down untouched. "I'm fine, Belle. Really. Just overdid it at the store."
Liar.
But I didn't say it.
Didn't push.
Because pushing meant hearing truths neither of us could afford right now. Meant numbers and prognoses and words like monitoring and lifestyle changes that translated to money we didn't have.
"The lemon bars are fresh."
"You spoil me."
He unwrapped one. Took a bite. Chewed slowly.
Too slowly.
My chest tightened. Not panic. Not yet. Just the steady constriction of watching someone you loved dissolve by degrees. Watching them smile through it. Insist everything's fine while their body contradicts every word.
"Store doing okay?" he asked.
Another lie I'd have to tell.
"Yeah. Fine."
"Good. That's good."
Silence stretched. Rain pattered against the window—harder now, insistent. The kind that found cracks and exploited them.
I thought about Gideon standing in my doorway. That deliberate pause. The warning wrapped in concern.
Take care of your family, Belle.
Like he knew. Like he'd been waiting for this exact collapse.
My father finished the lemon bar. Reached for another.
"You should go home," he said. "Get some rest. You look exhausted."
I probably did. Felt it too. But exhaustion was easier than the alternative. Easier than going home to an empty apartment and shadows that looked too much like watching men.
