Elio watched with his eyes as Mika made her slow way back to the mattress. Only when he saw her reach it and shift to sit did he turn, sharp and quick, and head for the bathroom again.
"...at least let me have the bathroom in peace..."
…
He stopped mid-step.
The words had slipped out of him without permission. He turned his head, tight in the neck, and looked back toward Mika. She gave no sign she'd heard. She was busy easing herself onto the bed, hands steadying the walker, attention on the simple mechanics of sitting down.
Relief moved through his chest in a short, hard breath. Did I really say that out loud? He didn't linger on it. If she hadn't heard, that was that.
He stepped back into the bathroom and turned on the water again. Steam edged out of the stall; he let it roll over him as he stood under the showerhead. His thoughts crowded in the way they always did when there was nothing else to hold.
Maybe he'd gone too far. Mika had only been trying to help. For all her illness and the way her body failed her at the worst times, she always reached for some task to make his life easier. More often than not, those efforts turned into new problems to solve. He had told her—what, a thousand times?—that he didn't need help, that he could handle everything himself.
But Mika never really seemed to accept it.
If she would just do what I ask… if she'd give me less to worry about… wouldn't that be better for both of us?
Why doesn't she see she's wearing me out like this?
He tried to weigh his own reaction, to see if the edge in his voice had been too much. Maybe I should apologize… He let the thought stand a beat, then shook his head under the warm spray. No. Not this time. How many times did he have to set the same boundary before it stuck?
By the time the loop of questions began to fade, the shower had done its work. Heat eased the tightness in his shoulders; the sound of water dulled the noise in his head.
He wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped out of the stall. He rubbed his hair and arms briskly, chased the water off his back, then pulled on clean underwear. When he cracked the door open and slipped into the corridor, cooler air touched his skin. He crossed to the cupboard near the left corner and pulled it open. His flannel pajamas sat folded on the shelf exactly where he always left them. He tugged them on—top first, then the loose pants, the fabric whispering as it slid into place.
He went back into the living room.
Mika sat on the mattress, one elbow propped on the floor table, her chin resting in her hand as she watched the cartoon. The light from the television moved over her face in quiet colors. Her expression was plain—ordinary Mika, the look she wore most evenings.
Elio glanced toward the kitchenette. Glass still glittered on the floor where the bowl had fallen, a scatter of sharp stars across dull linoleum.
He turned on his heel and walked back to the cupboard. On top sat the broom and the dustpan. He took them down and returned to the mess, planting his feet carefully. The bristles scraped softly as he drew the shards into a small, manageable pile, then ushered them onto the dustpan with short, practiced strokes. Tiny pieces clicked against the plastic, a thin, bright sound that threaded under the low murmur of the TV.
"What do you want for dinn— mm." He caught himself, eyes sliding to the damp sink and the measure cup by it. "You were soaking rice, right? Then I'll make rice—and beans on the side."
It came out half question, half decision. Mika liked beans. That made it simpler.
"Okay."
Just the one word. Short and neat. Her face didn't change. The normal calm of it made him think she'd taken offense even if she didn't show it.
"I, uh… I'm sorry," he said after a moment, tipping the last slivers into the pan. "I shouted. But I've told you before, haven't I? You really don't need to help. I've got it."
"It's fine. I wasn't thinking."
Another quick, compact answer.
On the surface, that settled it. The words met in the middle, brushed past each other, and moved on. But the air in the room didn't change. The quiet felt thicker than before, as if the space had absorbed their voices and decided to hold them there. Elio carried the dustpan to the trash, emptied it with a muted clatter, and returned to sweep once more just to be sure nothing remained that could cut. The television flickered. The walker stood by the mattress, steady and square. He set the broom and pan aside, wiped his palms on his pajama legs, and let out a breath he hadn't meant to hold, the ripple of tension still stitched between them, neat and invisible.
Elio turned back to the kitchenette and pulled out what he needed. The quiet had weight, but he let it rest where it was. It would ease on its own in time. For now, he focused on the small, simple motions of cooking.
He rinsed the rice until the water ran clearer, set a pot on the weak burner, and measured out the beans. The apartment filled with the faint, starchy scent of rice and the earthier note of beans warming through. Metal knocked against metal as he opened a cabinet. The old pan gave a tired scrape when he set it down. He worked without hurry—rinse, pour, stir—each step neat, each sound a small stitch pulling the room back together.
When the food was ready, he drew out the tray from its spot beside the cupboard. He portioned the meal—rice in one bowl, beans in another—cheap and plain, exactly what the day could afford. That was fine. His skill in the kitchen didn't stretch far, and their budget stretched even less. This was what fit.
He balanced the dishes on the tray, added forks and spoons, and carried everything to the low floor table. Porcelain clicked softly as he set each piece down in its spot. He slipped onto the cushion and sat in silence.
Mika noticed the tray and shifted. She slid herself along the floor, careful and unhurried, keeping a hand on the table's edge as she eased into place. Once both of them were there, they began to eat.
For a short while, only the sounds of dinner moved between them—the light tap of cutlery against bowls, a quiet breath, the cartoon's low murmur.
Elio broke the silence first, his voice gentle and trying for a lightness that didn't ask for much. "Haha… you know, I really pushed my luck for this ticket. It took me two whole months to get it out of that spin-wheel. Can you believe it??"
Mika lifted a spoonful to her mouth and listened without looking up. After a small pause, she answered. "Mm… right. Maybe if you hadn't been pushing your luck for two months, we could be eating something other than rice and beans today…"
The words were simple, but her tone had a small slant to it—dry, needling, and just enough to let the tightness ease a notch.
Elio took the opening and leaned into it with a quick grin. "Ahh, don't say that. I'll bring you a souvenir from there."
Mika's eyes flicked to him, thoughtful. "...A bribe, huh. I accept." Then she added, "When is this trip? Can you get time off from work?"
Elio pulled a face that couldn't decide what it wanted to be and settled somewhere between hopeful and resigned. "Hmm… I'll probably have to beg the site supervisor. It's in about two weeks. But… I think I can convince him by then."
Mika hesitated, then let out a breath that was half surprise, half weariness. "Honestly, what do you even see in this Hunter thing? What's so good about it?"
"What do you mean, what's good about it?" he said, a little heat returning to his words. "You discover new things—and you get rich."
"Get rich?" She shook her head, small and sure. "You're looking at it from the wrong side. They aren't rich because they're Hunters. They're Hunters because they're rich. And it's dangerous."
The thought landed with a flat truth that made Elio pause. She wasn't wrong. Hunters were rich—always had been. Even without the title, most of them would have had money anyway. The whole world of hunting was a tradition kept alive by wealthy and noble families. To even qualify, you had to go through a chain of operations and procedures that cost more than most people would see in a lifetime. For someone like him, standing where he stood, the path was far and steep.
He knew all of that. Knowing didn't change the pull.
"Every job has its downside," he said at last, pushing the bowl a little closer to her side. "It's dangerous, yeah. But I think it's worth it."