"'Course I don't mind," he calls back at her, and he's so glad that she's not there to watch him because now that he's out of sight, his hands are shaking more so that his pills rattle around in the bottle as he tries to open it. He taps one out and reaches for the glass of water he'd left out earlier as he grips the edge of his kitchen table so hard that his knuckles go white.

He takes a deep breath, eyes shut tight, and tries to mentally urge the medication to work faster because he refuses to walk back out there without a smile on his face. Is he being stubborn? Absolutely. No regrets. He grabs a paper towel to dab at his forehead before rolling his neck and strolling--as best as he can, at least--back out to the living room. "See? I managed not to get myself killed on my way to the kitchen."