Befriending fierce sprites could not have been an easy undertaking. Mike knew that going in, but it didn't stop his jaw from sagging. Daya rolled from heel to toe, an apple in one hand, dramatically illuminated by the light streaming from the open fridge.

"Mike, we must go shopping!"

He put down the Playstation controller slowly as if he could spook her into taking flight. "Ah... okay. What do you want to buy? A mirror?"

She looked at him like he was mad. Fortunately, he clocked in years of experience in being a misunderstood genius.

"Don't dip that apple in poison, and I'll do my best to assure you that you are the fairest in the land, whenever you want a self-confidence boost." The apple landed next to him—small blessings. He closed his eyes, bit into it and chewed. Hmm, tangy. The fruit's flesh was still firm, but dry. He let it linger in the fridge for far too long, even if it was this year's crop.

"Mike?"

Oh, right... Daya. "I can stretch out for fresher verses to praise your unearthly beauty."

Or, rather, her earthly beauty: calves thick with muscle, arms that didn't hang from the shoulders like wet noodles, hearty complexion, that glossy, alive hair and generous mouth. Everything about Daya spoke of soil and sun more lush than that of the North.

She shut the fridge, and perched on the armrest of the couch, leaving the rest for his cast-encased foot. Peculiarly, she looked smaller up-close than at a distance. Her presence projected well, yet got lost side by side because she possessed an unmistakable source of inner warmth. That positive energy core was strong enough to power a star-ship and draw a wandering eye of a nomad like him.

If he had to play the Truthful Mirror to her Queen, the murder need not have happened. With a braid tossed over one shoulder, the slim nose of the Ancient Greek finesse, well-defined lips, and roman-arch brows curving over eyes more elegantly outlined than a Gothic arch Daya was the fairest one in the land.

She was too pretty to be his type... yet he wondered if he imagined or sensed this extraordinary warmth. He took another bite out of his apple, and re-focused on what she was saying.

"You need food with far more nutrients than chips and cola to heal, let alone keep you from gaining loads of weight while your mobility is impaired. You don't need another twenty pounds around your waist."

She leaned forward, a leg thrown over the other leg, hand tapping the back of the couch, and her eyes devouring his face. Before him stood a woman in search of a project, either too frightened to look to herself for one, or thinking she had no cause. Which one are you, Daya Dhawan, the frightened or the self-righteous?

"My weight goal is 350 pounds," Mike said pleasantly. "A lofty goal, yes, but I'll get there, eventually."

This witticism had earned him scoffs from his mother and polite chuckles from the small-talkers. Sometimes—even a few understanding glances from the fellow-sufferers lugging the weight of the expectations. He just had to lay it on thick to sidetrack her.

"Do you see my hair color? I am a Titian beauty. We are so rare, that I feel compelled to maintain a voluptuous body."

"A... what beauty?" she asked, with a small frown forming between her brows.

This wasn't his usual crowd. "Titian was a Venetian painter who delighted in scrumptious nudes with hair like mine, hence the term Titian beauty. Most would say strawberry-blond, but come on, it's not as bad as strawberry."

Daya's brow quirked upwards. "Nudes?"

No, not his usual crowd at all. Embarrassment colored his cheeks. "Ah, I swear, it sounded funny in my head."

"Sorry, I wasn't an audience for it." Daya played with the tuft at the end of her braid. Her hair would have been more to Caravaggio's liking if he stuck to the Italian old masters.

She had it tied off with the same bright-red band he remembered from the emergency room. "Did you pick that hairband, Daya, or did it just come in handy?"

She startled, dropped the braid and stretched the band between her fingers. "I like it. Why?"

He suppressed a smile. "The rest of your clothes are grey and black, even though yoga pants come in vicious pinks, purples, yellow, all sorts. I had seen it in VITAL. It reminds me of Cesare Borgia."

"My yoga pants remind you of the dead dude who bunked with his sister?" she asked incredulously.

"Ah, that's debatable. And, yes, yes, I realize how idiotic I sound. Raped, pillaged, murdered, betrayed—sure, but incest, no, no way, probably not."

Mike chuckled, warming up to the subject. Renaissance was brilliant, full of paradoxes and the reversal of fortune that barely felt real.

"Back to the yoga pants. The French mocked his golden finery during his visit to the French Court. Since then, he only dressed in black. You make efforts to deck in black like something had happened, yet that band... what does the red mean? Is it a streak of rebellion? An unfinished business?"

And... he had lost her completely.

Daya flowed to her feet and cocked her head to one shoulder. "When we shop, I'll purchase a black band to keep your mind from running round in circles. Let's go, Mike. You hired me to get you back on your feet, and I intend to do just that."

Well played! He conceded defeat. Sure, he tried his best, but even the best generals beat retreat to cut their losses.

Besides, would it be that bad to not gain weight? Probably not... so long as she didn't push him into the bottomless void that was the pursuit of a perfect body. Or a perfect mind. Humans were meant to be flawed. Still, it did not hurt to negotiate for more favorable terms of surrender.

"Could I give you some cash? It'll go much faster without me in tow." He wiggled the crutches to emphasize his point.

She shook her head decisively. "It isn't just food, Mike. Your recovery will go faster if you don't lock yourself in, convinced that you're an invalid. If your mind wants you to function, you'll function."

Daya's eyes glowed with zeal. She sounded like his well-being was the most important thing in the world for her—a strangely flattering, if inconvenient, sentiment.

"I knew you were a miracle worker!" With fake enthusiasm, Mike climbed to his feet. It took him about as long as it took Daya to dump the contents of his pantry into a black plastic garbage bag—also obtained from his pantry.

"No, not the Pringles!" he cried out forlornly. The rustling tubes, chock-full of the wondrous things one could turn a spud into, disappeared into the bulging bag. Salty, crunchy, with the right thickness to break apart at the first bite, the best of all potato chips filled up the mouth without overflowing it. Each pack of Pringles was a succession of festival days: all the same, but oh, so welcome!

"I am sorry, Mike, but this stuff is full of chemicals that will stress your body." Obviously, Daya saw Pringles in a different light. "I can lock it in my car for safekeeping, or donate it to charity, whatever you want."

He knew very well which answer was the correct one on this multiple-choice test. He covered a resigned sigh with a chuckle. "Let's drop it off at the donation bin."

I better discover what that red band meant before she has me trudging uphill fifty times in the snow.

***

After they had returned from the grocery store laden with greens, greens and more greens, he fired up the Ages of Heroes again, but his head kept turning towards the flurry of activity in the kitchen.

"Is that Indian food?" he asked sheepishly at last, tired of stealing glances.

"Mike, I'm Indian. Everything I cook is Indian food. I put a tub of spinach in front of you, it's Indian food." She lowered the biggest pot he owned into the sink with a bang. Water rushed from the faucet in a raging torrent.

"I hope it's not just spinach on the menus tonight."

He got spinach fried with a bit of butter... well, not quite butter. Ghee. To reduce inflammation, she'd said. He picked every withered leaf with his fork, stretching out the meal, while the aroma emanating from the simmering pot on the stove tickled his nostrils. Not quite Spanish Inquisition, but bloody close.

"Let's try Italian tomorrow?" he tried with a plaintive smile. "My mother bestowed upon me three secrets of making perfect pasta."

The blender whirled (did he buy the hellish machine himself, or did his mother re-gift it to him?) to answer him.

What did he unleash? But just before his heart overflowed with resentment, Daya took a seat on the armrest again. The tiny figure perching there like a bird on a cliff, near a-flutter, ready to fly off into a storm—it drained his bile. What's worse, his heart melted into goo. By all that is holy, she's not your type, she's... and you're falling for her.

"Tomorrow, I want you to drink bone broth for healing the tissues and the green smoothie to keep hunger down. I'll leave you salad with boiled cod in the fridge."

Don't wince, whatever you do, don't wince.

"Actually," Mike said, "I'm returning to work tomorrow. Like you said, if I act like an invalid, I'll remain one."

And then she smiled at him, and his heart skipped a beat. Maybe it was from Tylenol he'd taken earlier or from hunger.

No, that was a lie. It was because she cared, and he cared that she did. This realization almost made him ashamed of his plan, but it was too late. His survival instinct kicked in, and no amount of smiling could beat the primal drive to seek food.