She snorts softly, voice rough from sleep. “Of course it is.”
On the bedside table sits a chipped mug of coffee, steam curling in the cold air, and a bowl of oatmeal I made with honey and cinnamon and dried cranberries because ten years ago she told me she could tolerate cranberries but hated raisins, and apparently I’ve been collecting details like they’re proof I’m not the villain in this story.
She stares at the tray like it might bite her.
“I brought you breakfast,” I say, continuing to pretend that all of this is normal.
Her gaze flicks back to me, then down to her wrists, then to the locked door. She lets out a soft exhale, a mixture of relief and resignation. I push up, sitting on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips, pulling her closer. Carefully, I set the tray across her lap.
“I’m going to cut those off,” I say, nodding to her wrists. “So you can eat like a person.”
Her eyes narrow a fraction. “How generous.”
“Don’t make me regret it,” I warn lightly.
She holds my stare, chin jutting up in that stubborn way I remember from years ago. Fear is still clinging to her eyes but there’s steel there too. There always has been.
I pull the small wire cutters from my pocket. Her body tenses as I slip my fingers under the plastic band, cool metal brushing the sensitive skin of her inner wrists. “Hold still,” I murmur.
The tie snaps with a soft click. Red marks circle her skin. My throat tightens at the sight, guilt and need tangling in my chest. I rub my thumb gently over the impressions, as if I could erase them by will alone.
Her breath hitches. “Nick,” she whispers, voice small.
“I'm going to trust you.” I let go of her hands slowly, as if handling something explosive. “You try to bolt, I’ll catch you. You know that. And I really don’t want to have to tie you again.”
“Then why give me the chance?” she asks softly.
I shrug, trying for casual and landing somewhere closer to crazy. “It’s Christmas. Even Grinches get parole on Christmas morning.”
She lets out a sound that almost becomes a laugh, except it’s too tired. She flexes her fingers, rubbing her wrists, then reaches for the spoon.
I watch her eat like I’m the one starving.
She starts slow, small bites, testing the temperature, eyes flicking to the door every so often like she’s mapping the room again. But the hunger wins out. By the third spoonful she’s eating properly, shoulders relaxing millimeter by millimeter.
I don’t touch my own mug on the nightstand. I don’t move. I just sit here, turned toward her, cataloging everything. How the steam from the coffee fogs her lashes. The little shiver that goes through her when the warmth of the oatmeal hits her belly.
“Does it pass inspection?” I ask quietly when her bowl is half-empty.
She swallows, licking a bit of honey from her mouth’s corner. My hand grips the blanket tighter.
“It’s good,” she admits, grudgingly. “You really enjoy feeding me.”
I chuckle softly. “It’s my turn to take care of you now.”
Her gaze snaps to mine at that. Our eyes lock. For a moment neither of us breathes.
Then she drops her eyes back to the bowl and scoops the last of it in silence. When she’s done, she pushes the tray aside. We just sit, close enough that I feel the warmth of her body through the blanket, not quite touching.
“You had a nightmare last night,” I say. It isn’t a question.
Her gaze drops. “Plural.”
“I figured.” My hand twitches, itching to reach out. “You woke me up with them.”
She goes still. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not,” I answer, letting my fingers brush the back of her hand resting on the blanket. “I want to be the one who wakes up when you’re hurting. I want to be there.”
