The Collector | 18+

【36】Getting Comfortable

Hell hath no fury like a cat in a bathtub. Thankfully, I'd managed to get out of bathing Reggie with only a couple of claw marks. He surprisingly loved the blow drier, though, so that part hadn't been as perilous.

Yuko, bless her heart, had come back with a bowl of cat food, one with water, as well as a large plastic container with litter, and an improvised cat bed—a crate with a fluffy blanket laid in it. To make up for my unproductive day and to give Reggie some space, I'd left him in my room to head downstairs and work. I'd done so until late at night after a short break for dinner.

This resulted in me oversleeping on the next day. I had no alarm set up on Sundays, and I'd forgotten to create one. I'd woken up with a slight weight on my chest, only to find that Reggie was now comfortable enough to sleep on me.

The cat followed me out of my room and into the living area, where Yuko was busy in the kitchen, per usual. Reggie went right away to the bowl with kibbles we'd prepared for him the evening before.

"Don't you have days off?" I asked her, curious.

"Oh, I do. Today is day off. But I need preparing things for tomorrow."

"That's not how it works, Yuko. You deserve some proper rest after everything you do."

She rolled her eyes, disagreeing. "Not you too. Mister Ulrik already gave me a scold today."

"And he's right." With an indulging smile, I passed by her to the coffee machine. I set a mug underneath, as I'd learned, and pushed a few buttons on the tactile screen above. Then, I went to the fridge and opened it in search of a suitable breakfast.

"Your plate is in the oven," she said from behind me.

"You cooked breakfast? On your day off?"

"I wanted to, but Mister Ulrik didn't let me."

Now that I knew her more, I understood Ulrik's struggle to force her to rest, and why it affected him so much that she wouldn't. This woman was endearing, and she only had people's best interests in mind. Everyone else's interests but hers, alas.

I picked up my plate from the oven—a stack of pancakes with scrambled eggs and bacon. It had been kept warm just right. "He cooked this?" I asked.

"Yes, before I could do anything."

"It looks familiar," I told her with a grin.

"Yes, your country's cuisine."

"Did he—Does he eat this often?"

She shook her head.

"So he picked it for me?"

This time, she nodded.

Damn, I wasn't sure what to make of this. In the end, things would have been simpler if she'd been the one responsible for it.

"I wanted to cook, to thank you for driving me yesterday, Miss Mila," she explained with a slight pout.

"But you don't need to, because I'm still the one in your debt as it is. You'll have to let me cook for you at some point. I make a mean macaroni bechamel."

"What is that? It sounds very American."

"Weirdly enough, it looks Italian, but it's Egyptian. It was my dad's favorite dish when he lived there."

"You live there too?"

"Not for very long."

I worried for an instant that she might ask follow-up questions, which would undoubtedly bring up the topic of my mother. But to my relief, she simply nodded and went to fetch something in a cupboard. She came back after a detour to the coffee machine and settled my mug, as well as a brand new bottle of maple syrup, on the counter. Once I'd thanked her with a smile, she returned to her carrots.