The stillness between them lingered until Lilia suddenly remembered the fruit box sitting untouched beside the bed.  

She straightened, as if the small act of giving it might explain why she was there.  

“These are for you,” she said quickly, handing it over. “Just some fruit.”  

Bix looked at the elegant wrapping—silver ribbon, embossed paper, too refined for a hospital room—and smiled, unsure what else to do.  

“Thanks,” he said, scratching his cheek. “But, uh… I don’t think I can actually cut any of it right now.”  

She blinked. “Cut?”  

For a brief, ridiculous second, her mind stalled. *He wants me to cut it?*  

Before she could answer, a gravelly chuckle came from the next bed.  

“Got a knife right here, young man,” the old patient said cheerfully. “Let your girlfriend use it.”  

The room froze.  

Both Lilia and Bix turned at once—  

“Not—”  

“—my girlfriend,” they said almost in unison.  

The old man only laughed harder. “Sure, sure. That’s what they all say.”  

Lilia inhaled slowly through her nose, pressing down whatever expression threatened to surface.  

“…Where’s the knife?”  

“Drawer by the bed,” the old man said, still grinning.  

She got up, found a cheap plastic-handled knife, and took it to the sink.  

Cold water ran over the blade; her reflection in the metal looked absurdly serious.  

When she returned to the bed, she peeled an apple with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb.  

The first slice was generous—too generous.  

Half the apple disappeared with the skin.  

By the second, the knife slipped, and she accidentally carved a deep groove into the flesh.  

By the third, there was more peel on the tray than fruit.  

Bix watched, fighting a losing battle not to smile.  

He bit the inside of his cheek, lips twitching.  

You don’t laugh at the woman who bought you fruit and is now butchering it in your honor.  

Finally she set the mangled apple down, exhaled, and said with perfect composure, “That should be fine.”  

He nodded quickly. “Looks great.”  

He picked up a slice with the fork, tasted it—sharp and sour enough to make his eyes sting—and said, “Sweet.”  

That made her look up. Their eyes met briefly before both turned away.  

The silence that followed was lighter this time, almost companionable.  

So he started talking. Anything to keep the moment from collapsing.  

He told her about the hospital food (“tastes like regret”), the nurses (“efficient but terrifying”), and his friend Ryan bringing the wrong takeout twice.  

Lilia countered with office anecdotes—the board member who fell asleep mid-meeting, the intern who kept sending files with cat stickers in the footer.  

One story bled into another until an hour had passed without either of them noticing.  

The city dimmed outside; the sunlight on the wall turned to the gold of early evening.  

When she finally stood, adjusting her jacket, he realized how quiet the room had become.  

“I should go,” she said. “There’s still work waiting.”  

He nodded, suddenly wishing he could stand too. “Thanks… for coming. And for the apple.”  

She was halfway to the door when she paused, turned slightly, and added,  

“If you need anything—anything at all—just message me.”  

He blinked, sure he’d misheard.  

“You mean… I can actually text you?”  

Her expression didn’t change, but her eyes gave away the faintest amusement. “Yes.”  

And then she was gone.  

The door clicked shut. The old man across the room chuckled under his breath.  

Bix looked down at the misshapen apple pieces, smiling despite himself.  

It wasn’t much of a meal—but it was, somehow, the sweetest thing he’d tasted in weeks.