Page 94 of Played By Design

Ash tosses the remainder of his sandwich into the container and leans forward, his forearms braced on his knees. “You live together. You go everywhere together. You fuck. You don’t see other people. How is that the roommate path?”

I cock my head to the side. “Because it’s not the same thing.”

“How?”

“People on the romance path kiss and say I love you. Roommates don’t.” My answer comes out smaller than I mean it to. “Or rather, Players don’t unlock romance achievements with a pet bunny. They take care of them. They keep them fed and healthy and happy. They don’t love them.”

Ash’s mouth opens, but Lev’s raised hand stops him before he can speak. Ash’s jaw works as if he’s chewing glass.

Lev turns to me. “Has Kain never told you he loves you?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Never.” I nudge the workbook with my shoe. “Roommates don’t do that. Farmers don’t either.”

Ash pushes up from his chair so hard it rocks on two legs. He stands, turns, and starts a short, furious circuit around the small hospital room. “Kain is the stupidest motherfucker in the world.”

My shoulders pull tight, and my spine stiffens. I don’t like Ash calling Kain stupid, even as I grapple with the uncomfortable realization that I’ve been a pet for years.

How did I miss it? Kain calls me bunny all the time.

Lev ignores Ash’s aggravated pacing and studies me as if reading the fine print on my Terms and Conditions.

Lev’s hand finds the arm of my chair. “Reef, do you love Kain?”

The question catches me between the ribs, and my breath stalls.

Before the workbook, Kain’s care was the warmth of his guitar music wrapping around me on the couch. It was the safety of his hand on my neck when crowds got loud, and the certainty he always knew what I needed.

Now, every action holds a hidden meaning.

I look at Kain’s bruised and bandaged form.

Do I love Kain? I’ve never thought about it.

And now I’m scared to, because what if I do, and he doesn’t?

So instead, I focus on a problem with defined results. Bending, I grab the workbook and flip through the pages until I find a blank page near the back. The paper is smoother here, less dog-eared, the blue lines still crisp.

“Lev.” I keep my head down. “Will you help me write a care manual for Kain?”

The room goes quiet, and Ash stops pacing.

“For when he comes home.” My fingers trace the empty margin. “I don’t play doctor games. I can’t afford to do anything wrong.”

“Sure.” Lev slides off the windowsill and crouches beside my chair. “What do you need?”

I spot a pen beside the emergency phone, grab it, and click it open.

At the top of the page, in my wobbly handwriting, I give this new section a title.

KAIN’S CARE MANUAL

“Food.” I start a new section. “Kain eats anything, but he prefers protein. Eggs in the morning. Chicken if we have it.”

I tap the pen against the workbook. “He drinks coffee black with one sugar, but he’ll drink it any way if he’s tired enough.”