I dive into the routine—pan sizzling, vegetables chopping, oil humming. The motions are my armor. I talk to fill the space, rattling off ingredients and their supposed benefits. “Quinoa for endurance, turmeric for recovery, magnesium for?—”
“—sleep. Yeah, I know,” he cuts in, half-smiling. “You’ve told me about ten times.”
“Then you’re finally listening.”
“I always listen.” His tone softens. “Especially when you’re trying too hard to sound normal.”
That stops me cold. I flip a piece of chicken too fast, the oil spitting up and catching my wrist. The burn is instant, sharp. I hiss and drop the spatula.
Leo’s off the couch before I can blink. “Hey—” He grabs my hand, pulls me toward the sink, runs the cold water full blast. His touch is gentle but firm, anchoring.
“Hold still,” he murmurs. The chill hits, numbing the pain, but my pulse spikes for an entirely different reason now.
We’re too close. His breath brushes my temple, and for a second the world narrows to that single point of warmth where his fingers hold mine.
“I’m fine,” I whisper, even though my voice shakes.
He looks at me like he doesn’t believe it for a second. “You don’t have to be.”
The words almost undo me. I pull back too quickly, water splattering the counter. “Dinner’s burning,” I say, though I can’t see straight enough to tell.
Leo hesitates, then nods slowly and steps away.
The air between us crackles with everything unsaid.
After Leo steps out to grab ice from the corner store, the apartment goes too quiet. The kind of silence that hums in your bones. I rinse the burned pan, anything to keep my hands busy, but the unease won’t fade. It sits under my skin, pulsing.
A knock startles me. Quick. Sharp. Two short raps.
“Leo?” I call, drying my hands. No answer.
Another knock—lighter this time.
I cross to the door, heart thudding, and peek through the peephole. The hallway’s empty. Just the soft flicker of the overhead light.
For a second, I think I imagined it. But then I see it—a small box on the mat, wrapped in brown paper and tied neatly with string.
Every muscle in my body goes rigid.
I unlock the door with shaking fingers and crouch, pulling the package inside. No return address. No note. The paper smells faintly of cedar and something else—something that makes my blood run cold.
Grayson’s cologne.
My hands tremble as I tear the paper open. Inside, nestled in black foam, is a sleek set of knives. The same brand I used to have in our old kitchen. The same one he’d bought me when we were still playing house and pretending everything was fine.
My throat closes. I can’t breathe.
The largest blade catches the light, glinting against the countertop. A single white card rests beneath it. No message. Just a symbol—two intertwined initials. His.
I stumble back, pressing a hand to my mouth.
He knows where I live.
He’s been here.
The door handle rattles behind me and I jump, heart in my throat. Leo’s voice calls softly, “Sage? You okay?”
I swipe at my eyes, shove the box into the cabinet under the sink, and force my voice to steady. “Yeah,” I say, too quickly. “Just dropped something.”
