Ciel's POV
Waiting is evil.
Not loud evil. Not dramatic evil. Just the slow, ticking kind that sits beside you and taps your shoulder every five seconds.
It had been two hours.
Two full hours since Doctor Luke and Jay disappeared into my bedroom.
Chantelle was pacing like she was training for the Olympics. Back and forth. Back and forth. I swear the floor tiles memorized her footsteps.
"Do you think it'll work?" she finally asked, stopping in front of me.
I was sitting on the couch, elbows on my knees, staring at the closed door like I could see through it if I tried hard enough.
"It will," I said.
"But what if it doesn't?" Chantelle pressed. "What if it makes it worse? What if she wakes up and—"
I smacked her head.
Not hard.
Just enough.
"Hey!" she yelped, rubbing it. "Why did you smack me?!"
"That's what Jay does to people when they deserve it," I replied calmly.
She blinked at me.
"…You're so annoying."
"And you were spiraling."
She crossed her arms. "I was thinking realistically."
"You were thinking dramatically."
"What if she doesn't go back to normal?" Chantelle's voice softened. "What if she's… different?"
That hit a little deeper.
Normal.
What even was normal for Jay?
The girl who carries pain like it's homework. The girl who laughs too loud but sleeps too light. The girl who fights like the world owes her something.
"She doesn't need to go back to normal," I said quietly. "She just needs to be okay."
Chantelle's eyes got shiny again. She does that. Cries like a faucet that was never tightened properly.
Before I could say anything else, the bedroom door clicked.
Both of us froze.
Chantelle almost tripped running toward it.
Actually, she did trip.
She caught herself on the wall like a dramatic soap opera character.
Doctor Luke stepped out, closing the door gently behind him.
He looked… calm.
Which was a good sign.
We rushed him at the same time.
"Where's Jay?" I asked immediately.
"She's asleep," he said softly.
"Asleep? Why?" Chantelle blurted.
"She tried very hard," he replied. "Her body needs rest."
I felt my shoulders drop without permission.
"She's okay?" I asked.
He nodded. "She's more than okay."
Chantelle covered her mouth. "It worked?"
"It worked," he confirmed.
I don't know why, but I suddenly wanted to cry and punch someone at the same time.
Instead, I cleared my throat. "Doctor… how much do we owe you?"
He looked confused for a second.
"Owe me?"
"For the treatment," I said. "We'll figure it out."
He smiled.
"It's free."
Silence.
Chantelle blinked.
I blinked.
"…Free?" we both said.
"Yes."
"Free free?" Chantelle added.
"Yes, free free."
"Like zero?" I asked.
"Yes, zero."
Chantelle looked like she might faint from kindness alone.
"But why?" I asked carefully.
He hesitated, then smiled gently. "Because some things shouldn't have a price."
Chantelle's eyes filled again.
Oh no.
She was going to cry.
And she did.
"I won't get to see you after today," she sniffed suddenly.
I turned to look at her.
Where did that come from?
Doctor Luke chuckled softly. "You can call me anytime."
"Really?" she asked, hopeful.
"Anytime," he repeated. "If Jay wakes up and something feels wrong, call me immediately."
"Oh, okay," I said quickly.
"Can we visit you at the hospital?" Chantelle asked. "Or just call for no reason?"
He laughed. "Of course. You two are like my little sisters."
And that was it.
That did it.
Chantelle launched forward and hugged him.
I followed.
He hugged us back properly, warm and steady.
For a second, it really did feel like hugging an older brother.
Safe.
Reliable.
Annoyingly wise.
"Take care of her," he said softly before pulling away.
"We always do," I replied.
"One last thing," he added. "Trust her strength."
Then he left.
The condo felt different after the door closed.
Quieter.
But lighter.
We tiptoed into my room.
Jay was asleep on the bed, turned slightly to one side, breathing slow and peaceful.
No tension in her forehead.
No tight jaw.
Just calm.
I pulled the blanket up a little higher. Chantelle stood there staring at her like she was guarding a national treasure.
We closed the door gently.
Click.
Chantelle exhaled. "What do we do now?"
I stared at her.
"We cook."
"…Cook?"
"Yes. When Jay wakes up, she'll be hungry."
That part I knew for sure.
Chantelle nodded with sudden determination. "Okay. We cook."
Confident.
Bold.
Clueless.
Ten minutes later, we were in the kitchen watching a cooking video on someone's phone.
"Wait, pause it," I said.
"I did!"
"No you didn't, it's still moving!"
"That's an ad!"
"Oh."
We stared at the ingredients on the counter.
Why did recipes always assume you just knew things?
"How much salt is 'a pinch'?" Chantelle asked.
"Maybe like… this much?" I demonstrated something between a pinch and a handful.
"That looks illegal."
We argued for three whole minutes about onions.
Chantelle started cutting them.
Two seconds later she was crying.
"I hate onions," she sniffed dramatically.
"You're the one who said we needed flavor."
"I didn't mean emotional damage!"
Meanwhile, something in the pan started making an aggressive sizzling noise.
"Is it supposed to sound like that?" she asked.
"I think so."
The smell changed.
"…Why does it smell like regret?" Chantelle whispered.
I flipped whatever was in the pan.
It was slightly darker than it should have been.
Okay, maybe more than slightly.
"Maybe it's supposed to look like that," I said.
"It's black."
"It's crispy."
"It's charcoal."
We stared at it.
Then at each other.
Then burst out laughing.
Somewhere between burning food and crying over onions, the tension finally cracked.
While stirring something that may or may not have been edible, I asked quietly, "Should we tell everyone her fear of blood is gone?"
Chantelle paused mid-chop.
Tears still sliding down her cheeks from the onion massacre.
"Let's wait," she said softly. "Jay should decide."
I nodded.
That felt right.
We went back to our chaotic cooking.
Salt guesses.
Half-burnt vegetables.
Too much oil.
Not enough confidence.
But we tried.
And honestly?
That mattered.
Because in the next room, Jay was sleeping peacefully.
And in the kitchen, two very unqualified chefs were trying their best.
The smoke alarm almost joined the conversation once.
But we handled it.
Kind of.
If healing had a soundtrack, tonight it would be:
Soft breathing from a bedroom.
Sizzling confusion from a frying pan.
Two girls arguing over seasoning.
And hope.
A lot of hope. 🍳💛