Mr. Grey-Book I

24

Emilia

After our heated argument at breakfast, Damien and I spent the rest of the day studiously avoiding each other. The house was large enough that it wasn't difficult, but as the hours crawled by, I found myself slowly dying of boredom. There's only so much aimless wandering and staring out of windows one can do before going completely stir-crazy.

As evening approached, my stomach began to rumble insistently. Realizing I hadn't eaten since our disastrous breakfast, I reluctantly made my way back to the kitchen, hoping to find something to quell my hunger.

Susan looked up from where she was wiping down counters as I entered. Her warm smile was a balm to my frayed nerves. "You look tired, dear," she said, her voice filled with motherly concern.

I slumped into a chair at the kitchen island. "More like I'm losing my mind," I confessed with a rueful smile. "What's for dinner?"

Susan's brow furrowed slightly. "Well, I was actually going to ask you and Damien what you'd prefer. Any requests?"

An idea struck me suddenly. Cooking had always been a source of comfort, a way to ground myself when everything else felt chaotic. "Do you mind if I do the cooking myself today?" I asked hesitantly. "It's been ages since I've made a proper meal, and I could use the distraction."

Susan's face lit up. "Of course! That's a wonderful idea. What did you have in mind?"

"Pasta," I said decisively. "Something simple but comforting."

"Perfect," Susan nodded approvingly. "I'll leave you to it then. I'll be outside tending to the flower beds if you need anything at all."

As soon as Susan left, I set to work, rummaging through drawers and cupboards to gather the ingredients for my pasta dish. I lost myself in the familiar rhythms of cooking – the sizzle of garlic in olive oil, the rich aroma of tomatoes and herbs simmering together. For a little while, I could almost forget where I was and why.

I was just adding the sauce to the boiling pasta when I heard it – the distinctive sound of a walking stick tapping against the tiles, accompanied by slow, measured footsteps. My shoulders tensed involuntarily. I didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

I heard the scrape of a chair being pulled out, followed by a soft grunt as Damien lowered himself into it. I kept my focus on stirring the pasta, determined to ignore him.

After a long moment of tense silence, his deep voice cut through the air. "What are you making?"

I gritted my teeth, resisting the urge to snap at him. "It's none of your business," I replied coolly. "I thought we agreed to stay out of each other's way."

There was a pause, and I could almost feel his smirk. "Serve me." he said with so much audacity, completely disregarding my statement.

"No," I said flatly, serving myself a generous portion. I settled onto a stool at the kitchen island, ready to dig into my meal in pointed silence.

But as I raised my fork to my mouth, a little voice in the back of my mind started to nag at me. Are you really going to deny food to a blind man? What's wrong with you? I tried to shrug it off, taking a defiant bite of pasta. He doesn't deserve your kindness, I reminded myself. But the voice persisted. Don't be so selfish. He probably hasn't eaten all day.