The hallway is empty.
I slip out and make my way toward the bathroom as quietly as I can. The floorboards creak under my feet, and I wince at each sound, expecting him to appear at any moment.
He doesn’t.
I use the bathroom quickly, splashing water on my face, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. I don’t want to see what I look like right now. I don’t want to see the evidence of last night written across my features.
When I step back into the hallway, the bacon smell is stronger. Mixed with eggs and something sweet. French toast, maybe.
My stomach clenches with hunger so intense it borders on pain.
I follow the smell to the kitchen, bracing myself for confrontation.
But the kitchen is empty.
A plate sits on the table, covered with a clean dish towel. I lift the corner and find a full breakfast underneath. Scrambled eggs, perfectly fluffy. Bacon, crisp but not burned. Two slices of french toast dusted with powdered sugar. A glass of orange juice beside it, still cold.
He made me breakfast.
I stand there staring at it, trying to reconcile this with the man who crushed my phone in his fist and ripped the door off my car.
The cabin is spotless. Even cleaner than I left it yesterday. The floors are clean, the counters wiped down, there’snot a dish in the sink. He’s been up for hours, it looks like. Cleaning. Cooking. Preparing.
For me?
I don’t understand.
I sit down at the table, still listening for footsteps, still waiting for him to appear. But the cabin stays quiet. Wherever he is, it’s not here.
The first bite of eggs melts on my tongue. They’re good. Really good. Seasoned just right, cooked just right. Hard to reconcile with a man who eats his steak bloody and his potatoes plain.
He made this for a human palate. For my palate.
I eat everything on the plate because I’m starving and because I don’t know when I’ll get another chance. Then I wash my dishes and put them away, habit taking over even though I’m technically not working here anymore.
I quit. I remember that. Right before he went full caveman and trapped me here.
The flames have burned down to embers. I add a log without thinking, watching them lick up around the dry wood. Then I wander to the window and look outside.
My car is gone.
I blink, pressing closer to the glass, scanning the driveway. The snow has piled up even higher overnight, drifts reaching almost to the windowsills. But where my little sedan should be, there’s nothing. Just an empty space and a trail of tracks leading away from the cabin.
What the fuck did he do with my car?
The question burns through me. He already broke the window. Already ripped off the door. What more could he possibly do to it? Did he push it off a cliff? Roll it into a ditch? Bury it in the woods somewhere so I can never leave?
I pace the living room, anger building with each step.The audacity of this man. The absolute nerve. He destroys my property, kidnaps me, and then makes me breakfast like that’s supposed to fix everything?
I want to scream. I want to break something. I want to find him and demand answers.
But I don’t know where he is. And part of me, a small traitorous part, wonders if I should be afraid of what will happen when he comes back.
So I wait.
I sit on the couch, as far from his precious chair as possible, and I wait. Wood crackles and pops in the hearth. The wind howls outside. Snow continues to fall, thick and relentless, burying us deeper and deeper.
Hours pass.
