The illness cleared off by the fifth day. I decided now was a good time to leave without overstaying my welcome. I'd rather not to push you into having that awkward conversation about me moving out.

I gathered my clothes from the dryer and folded them into one, compact bundle, and picked up all of my personal toiletries from the bathroom. Recalling that you'd said my other belongings were in your studio, I went to collect them. I'd only wheeled in a couple paces when I froze, transfixed by the brilliance surrounding me.

You had shown me your art countless times before – small doodles and rough sketches in your pocket-sized artbook, some pictures of bigger projects on your phone. So, I was well aware of your incredible talent and creativity – or at least, that's what I'd thought. The sizable canvases lining the three walls, each adorned in an image more beautiful than the last, proved me wrong. This was more than just incredible; this was unmatched.

Your art depicted the splendors of nature – mountains and meadows, forests and flowers and fauna, captured in vivid colors and compositions. Picturesque, psychedelic. You were a pixy and this studio was your enchanted glade – it just made sense in my imagination.

I spent longer than I intended in there, awed by and in love with your work. It wasn't until I drove my wheelchair into a vase of paintbrushes and knocked it over, did I remember the real purpose of my being in the room. Reluctantly, I turned away from your exquisite expression to revert to packing.

As I sat on the sofa, my stuff packed and ready by the teapoy, I became more and more certain that I wanted to repay your graciousness. I knew you wouldn't take money, nor did I have enough of it to buy you a worthwhile gift. So, I did what I'd considered the purest manifestation of love growing up. I baked for you.

Your choice to be an ethical vegan posed a challenge, however, I was way too determined to let that hold me back. And I was a good baker – if I did say so myself. A box of succulent blueberries in the fridge inspired me, and a few, rapid Google searches helped me find materials, substitutes, and other paraphernalia I'd need for muffins. Familiarity with your kitchen made me familiar with you, too, I believed. For instance, I learned that you preferred rice milk over others, the stash of chocolates told me you had a predilection for the nutty variety, the way you kept every piece of utensil organized by type and size revealed that you liked your things in order. Although, I'd already discerned the last bit from how you kept the rest of your house.

When everything was ready, I attached my crutches for easier movement in the narrow space between the counter and the island. Half-an-hour and some mild toiling later, I was folding the blueberries into the smooth batter, pleased about how things were coming along so far. Gentle and patient with the spatula, I scooped the batter into cups in a muffin tray, then carefully placed the tray in the pre-heated oven. In another half-an-hour, rich vanilla and fruity sweetness danced in the air of your apartment.

The oven pinged. Slipping the mittens on, I brought the tray out. I waited while it cooled on the counter, leaning my hip against the island as I cut the remaining blueberries into halves. After ten minutes, I styled the muffins on a serving tray in a spiral and topped them with the cut-up berries. I finished right on time, because keys jangled in the front door and you stepped in just when I lifted the tray.

You locked the door, pausing to inhale deeply. The excitement that washed over your features was a sight to behold – bright and beauteous. "Holy shit!" you cried, dumping your bag on the floor and skipping over to me. "These smell heavenly."

"I made you blueberry muffins," I announced, a tad late. "A token of my gratitude."

"You absolute sweetheart!" you exclaimed, gently plucking a muffin from the outermost ring. Biting into it, you chewed a few times, slowing to savor it. And then your eyelids slid closed and you made a sound that stirred a buzz in the pit of my stomach. "Fucking hell, Viktor... this is the best thing I've ever eaten."

A grin broke across my face, stretching from ear to ear. "I'm so glad you like it."

"Like? I love it. This is ambrosial." You took another bite, moaning again.

Pride and joy pulsed through me in verves; the blood rushed to my face. "That's such high praise. Thank you."

"Won't you have some?" you queried suddenly, licking purple pulp from your fingertips. Before I could reply, you took the tray from me and headed to the drawing space. "We'll..." you trailed off, eyes on my belongings. "What's all this?"

"I packed," I explained, "I'm not ill anymore. The storm also passed long ago. Thank you for everything, Solé, but I think it's time I leave."

Putting the muffins down on the tea-table, you faced me. "And go where? Back to that burrow near the basement entrance?" Your jaw squared and your hands balled into fists. When you spoke again, the ferocity in your voice incinerated all the arguments and excuses I'd prepared. "I won't allow it."

I still tried, saying, "I can't—"

A futile attempt; you silenced me with a gesture. "You're my friend. You should stay until you're stable and secure. Like... get a job, save enough for registration when you find a place of your own." There was something emphatic and sure about the fire in your eyes when you came closer. Subliminally, I thought of how you were almost as tall as me and if I had my full legs, I'd have been taller than you. "I have all this space and if you think you'll get in my way or something, I'll confirm now that you won't. We'll work things out—take turns cooking, divide the chores... like roommates."

If I were being honest, that sounded really nice. I found great comfort in knowing that you wouldn't accept my declination.

"For some reason, I find it very hard to say no to you," I spilled, surprised by my own candor.

You snorted, taking me by the hand and leading me to the sofa. "Well, thank god for that."

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