Chapter 2: Nursing a Toxic Wife.

Several days have passed since I started living in the duke’s detached residence.
Honestly, it’s been tough going, to put it bluntly.

The time we spend in the same space, aside from dinner, is practically zero.

Cedric holes up in his room, reading books.

Even though there’s a library.

When I asked a servant if Cedric-sama doesn’t use it,

“-sama”: A Japanese honorific indicating respect or high status, used here to reflect the formal address toward Cedric.

“He used to read in the library… but lately, he stays in his room.”

That’s the answer I got.
—Yes, that means he’s avoiding me, doesn’t it?

I know. It hurts. But I get it.
Considering what the original Amelia did in the story, it’s only natural he’s wary.

But you know what? I’m not giving up.
Because I want to sear the image of my favorite character reading into my memory.

At dinner, sitting across from him, he’s as perfectly composed as ever, though his hand scooping soup is delicate.
If I speak to him, it ends with “I’m fine.” Still, I ask every night without fail.

“If you feel up to it, maybe a bit more food…”
“No, I’m fine.”
“I see.”
“Yes.”

And that’s the end of it.
The awkward dinner time is short, thanks to his small portions, but I’m not sure if I should be happy or sad about that.

One such night, amidst these routine days.
Due to a servant changeover, the residence was temporarily empty.

The servants rotate frequently, probably out of pity for Cedric’s unfortunate situation, to avoid burdening him.
A new servant is set to arrive by morning, but tonight, there’s no one.

Dinner and cleanup are done, I’ve changed into nightclothes, and it’s time to sleep—then it happens.
While walking down the quiet hallway, I hear footsteps approaching.

There he is, appearing with the moonlight at his back.
He’s clutching two books to his chest.

Probably carrying them from the library to his room—that’s what I thought, but then I froze, sensing something off.

His face is flushed.
His steps are unsteady.

A faint rasp escapes his throat with each breath.

—A bad feeling.

“Cedric-sama?”

As I call out, the books slip from his arms.

They fall with a soft thud, thud.
His swaying body leans against the wall.

His knees start to buckle, and I rush to his side instinctively.

“Are you okay?!”

I place a hand on his shoulder, and he murmurs shortly, “…I’m fine,” reaching for the fallen books.
No, no, no, hold on—that’s not the priority right now.

“Pardon me.”

I press my hand to his forehead.
—It’s hot. Not just warm, but burning.

It’s the kind of fever where standing is a struggle.

“Why didn’t you say anything when you’re in this condition…!”

My voice rises before I realize it.
It’s not anger—it’s fear.

The thought of him collapsing and hitting his head just now.

He furrows his brow slightly and says in a cool tone,

“…There’s no point in telling you.”

His cold words pierce my chest.
I know. I’m someone with zero trust—less than zero, even.

But even so—

“There is* a point! I’ll take care of you!”

I declare it firmly.
I’m not noble enough to stay silent while watching my favorite character push himself too far.

Before he can bend down to pick up the books again, I gently nudge them away with my foot.
Sorry, books. They’re probably valuable, but forgive me for now.

I move to his side, slipping his arm over my shoulder to support him.

“What are you…”
“You’re in no condition to be reading books. You need to rest properly.”

I’m shocked at my own commanding tone the moment it leaves my mouth.
But Cedric is even more surprised, his blue eyes widening.

“…Yes.”

So obedient. No, maybe not obedient—maybe he’s just too exhausted to resist.
His steps are unsteady.

I walk with him, sharing his weight, and guide him to his room.

The room beyond the door is—plain.
A bed, a desk, a chair. That’s it. No decorations.

The walls are clean but lack warmth.

It’s as if he’s been living here, shrinking himself to avoid being a burden.

My heart tightens.

“Pardon me.”

I pull back the sheets and gently help him lie down.

His breathing is rapid.
When I wipe the sweat from his forehead with my fingers, he closes his eyes faintly.

“I’ll be right back with water and cloths.”

I turn on my heel and rush to the empty kitchen.
A bucket of water, several clean cloths, and while I’m at it, a pot, rice, salt, and ginger.

They have ingredients like those in Japan here, huh.
Well, it makes sense since this is the world of a Japanese game.

—That’s it, I’ll make it. Porridge.

Porridge I made a few times in my previous life.

If I don’t use this skill now, when will I?

I start the fire, rinse the rice, and simmer it gently. I finely chop a small amount of ginger.
The quiet sound of bubbles popping on the water’s surface blends with the stillness of the night, calming my heart.

—It’s okay. I can do this.

When I return, he’s half-sitting up on the bed.

As expected, his eyes are searching for the books in the corner of the room.
He really loves reading, doesn’t he?

“The books aren’t going anywhere.”
“…They won’t run away, but they might get damp.”

I can’t help but laugh at his retort.

That’s what I love about him. I won’t say it out loud, though.

I set the bucket down, wring out a cloth, and place it on his forehead.
The moment the cool cloth touches him, his breathing seems to ease slightly.

“I’ll wipe your sweat. Please sit up a bit.”

I support his back as he rises, and he lets me guide him.
But the moment I reach for his shirt collar, he flinches.

“W-What are you…!”
“I was going to take off your shirt to wipe your body.”
“I-I can do it myself!”

His immediate reply, ears red, is adorable.
Thank you, gods, for this precious moment.

“Hehe, alright. I’ll just help with your back, then.”
“…Please.”

His fingers unbutton his shirt, and I gently wipe his neck, collarbone, and shoulders with the cloth.
There’s more sweat than I expected. I rinse the cloth multiple times, touching him softly.

The distance between us feels like it shrinks by the width of a single sheet of paper—or so I imagine.
After he changes, I bring over the pot and a wooden bowl.

“I made porridge. You didn’t eat much tonight, Cedric-sama, so please have some if you can.”

His blue eyes widen slightly.

“This… who made it? Was there still a servant here?”
“No, I made it.”
“—You did?”

His face screams disbelief.
The spoiled daughter of a marquis making food? Unthinkable.

Well, yeah. The original Amelia couldn’t cook, after all.

“It’s simple, but I made it to be gentle on your body.”

He takes the bowl, squinting at the steam.

He takes a spoonful.
The next moment, his eyelashes tremble, and a faint voice escapes.

“…It’s delicious.”

Something sparks brightly in my chest.

“I’m glad.”

He lowers his gaze, coughs as if to hide his embarrassment, and eats slowly.

His spoon moves carefully but doesn’t stop.
Half the bowl, two-thirds, and before I know it, it’s all gone.

—I thought I made too much, but it’s completely gone.

“Have some water too.”
“…Thank you.”

After finishing, he obediently lies back down.
I pull a chair to his bedside and sit.

“How long… are you staying?”
“Until you fall asleep, Cedric-sama. You had a high fever, so I’d worry if something happened.”
“…Why go this far? There’s no benefit for you.”

His voice carries genuine curiosity.
The voice of someone who’s only known people driven by self-interest.

In the original story, that’s true of those around him, and my heart aches again.

“I’m not thinking about benefits. I just want you to get better.”

His blue eyes widen again.
For a moment, he looks unguarded, like a child.

“…Thank you.”

An unguarded smile and words of gratitude from my favorite character.
So… precious.

I want to pat myself on the back for not shouting out loud.

“Yes. Good night, Cedric-sama.”

He rests his cheek on the pillow, the corners of his mouth lifting just slightly.

“…Yes. Good night.”

His eyes close. His eyelashes cast shadows.
His breathing slows.

I lean back in the chair, pressing a hand to my fulfilled heart.

(‘My favorite is just too cute…!’)

A silent scream melts away inside my chest.