Chapter 48

CHAPTER 21 — BOOK III

 

Care

 

The ward smelled faintly of disinfectant and something sweet that never quite placed itself.

Machines murmured. The afternoon light sat pale against the wall, as if unsure it was allowed to stay.

 

Embong lay propped against the pillows, eyes half-lidded, the fatigue in him deeper than sleep. The tray table had been nudged closer. The soup had cooled.

 

Geoffrey adjusted the napkin at Embong’s collar without thinking, smoothing it once, then again.

 

“Just a few more,” he said softly. “Then you can stop.”

 

Embong opened his mouth obediently, more tired than resistant. He swallowed slowly, then closed his eyes.

 

Geoffrey smiled—small, private—and dipped the spoon again.

 

“That’s it,” he murmured. “You’re doing well.”

 

From the chair by the window, Delima watched with a look that held both affection and appraisal.

 

“Geoffrey,” she said lightly, “if you keep that up, he’ll forget he has hands.”

 

Geoffrey froze, spoon hovering.

 

“I just thought—” he began.

 

“I know,” Delima said, amused now. “But he’s sick, not fragile porcelain.”

 

Embong huffed weakly. “I can feed myself,” he said, though the effort of saying it seemed to cost him.

 

Geoffrey hesitated, then set the spoon down carefully, like returning something borrowed.

 

“Sorry,” he said quietly. Not embarrassed—just recalibrating.

 

Embong reached for the spoon himself. His grip wavered, then steadied. Determination flickered briefly across his face.

 

Delima nodded once. “There. Let him try.”

 

Geoffrey stepped back half a pace. Not far. Never far.

 

Embong managed two more mouthfuls before tiring. When the spoon paused mid-air, Geoffrey slid the tray closer without comment. When Embong leaned back, Geoffrey adjusted the pillow instinctively—then stopped himself and let out a faint breath of laughter at his own expense.

 

“Sorry,” he said again, this time smiling.

 

Embong opened his eyes just enough to meet his. “You like fussing.”

 

Geoffrey didn’t deny it.

 

“Someone has to make sure you get better,” he said. “Might as well be me.”

 

Delima pretended to examine her handbag, lips curved.

 

Outside the window, traffic moved on. Inside the ward, nothing remarkable happened.

 

But Geoffrey stayed busy—straightening, warming, encouraging—as if each small act nudged the world back toward order.

 

And Embong, despite himself, let him.

 

Later

 

The bathroom light was too bright.

 

Geoffrey stood just outside the door while Embong leaned over the sink, one hand braced against the porcelain, the other gripping the edge hard enough to whiten his knuckles. The sound came again—thin, involuntary—and Geoffrey felt it land somewhere behind his ribs.

 

He had been the one who suggested the soup.
The extra spoonful.
The walk afterward.

 

He had wanted Embong to feel normal.

 

The retching stopped. Embong stayed bent forward, breathing through his mouth, eyes closed. Sweat gathered at his hairline.

 

“I’m sorry,” Geoffrey said before he realised he was speaking.

 

Embong shook his head weakly. “Not your fault.”

 

But Geoffrey wasn’t listening to that part.

 

He fetched water, held the cup without offering it until Embong nodded. When Embong rinsed and spat, Geoffrey turned away slightly, giving him the dignity of privacy without leaving.

 

I pushed, he thought. I should’ve known.

 

When Embong straightened at last, pale and emptied, Geoffrey reached out to steady him—then stopped himself, hands hovering uselessly in the air.

 

“Sit,” he said instead.

 

Embong did.

 

Geoffrey knelt to clean the sink, methodical, careful, as if erasing the evidence might also erase the mistake. He scrubbed longer than necessary.

 

Behind him, Embong watched.

 

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Embong said quietly.

 

Geoffrey nodded, because that was easier than admitting he needed it to be true.

 

Night

 

The ward settled into its night rhythm: machines humming, shoes whispering past, voices softened by distance and habit.

 

Embong lay half-awake, eyes drifting closed despite his efforts. The anti-nausea medication dulled the edges of everything, pulling him downward in slow increments.

 

Geoffrey sat beside the bed with a book he wasn’t really reading.

 

“Hey,” he said softly, when Embong’s breathing deepened too much. “Stay with me.”

 

Embong opened his eyes again. “Reading?”

 

“Sort of,” Geoffrey said, glancing at the page. “It’s not very good.”

 

“Read anyway.”

 

Geoffrey smiled faintly and began, his voice low and steady, shaping the words without urgency. He paused often—not for effect, but to check that Embong was still there.

 

When Embong’s eyes fluttered again, Geoffrey stopped reading and started talking instead.

 

Small things. Ordinary things.

 

“The nurse with the red lanyard hates the vending machine,” he said. “It keeps eating her coins.”

 

Embong huffed. Barely a laugh.

 

“And Delima’s convinced the coffee downstairs is better after midnight,” Geoffrey went on. “I think she’s lying to herself.”

 

“Mm,” Embong murmured, eyes open now.

 

They stayed like that—reading, talking, pausing—until the danger window passed and Embong’s breathing evened out for real.

 

Geoffrey didn’t sleep.

 

He didn’t need to.

 

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