A neatly folded set of clean linens.
He presents them to me with the grave, formal gravity of a king presenting a crown.
I stare at him.
Then at the orange juice.
Then back at him.
"You brought me orange juice."
"Yes."
"The expensive kind."
"Yes."
"The kind I can now afford because you strong-armed the clinic into giving me a massive raise."
"Yes."
I take the bottle.
It's cold. Perfectly chilled.
I crack it open and take a long drink.
It tastes like victory.
And also like I've completely lost control of my life.
"This is insane," I say.
"What is?"
"This. All of this. Two months ago I was eating ramen and dodging eviction notices. Now I'm sitting naked on a pile of luxury furs drinking twelve-dollar orange juice while a mythological security mogul builds me a nest."
His expression doesn't change.
"Do you regret it?"
I pause.
Do I?
I should.
I should regret every single decision that led me to this moment.
But I don't.
"No," I say finally. "I don't regret it."
His amber veins flare brighter.
