"Probably."
"Then yeah. Bread's in the box by the sink."
I set down my coffee and join him in the narrow kitchen. My hip brushes his thigh as I reach for the bread box, and I feel him go still beside me. Not pulling away. Just... aware.
The air between us feels charged, too close, crackling with something I'm afraid to examine.
I focus on the bread, slicing it thicker than I mean to because my hands aren't quite steady. The toaster is old-fashioned, the kindyou set over the stove burner. I arrange the slices and try not to think about how warm the space is, how I can feel the heat radiating off his body even though we're not touching.
"You run a lot?" His voice is low, conversational, but I catch the real question underneath.Have you had to run before?
"No." I watch the bread start to brown, turning it slowly. "First time. I just—I couldn't do it. Couldn't walk down that aisle and promise forever to someone who made me feel like I was drowning."
He's quiet for a moment, whisking eggs with more force than necessary. "Does he make you feel that way often?"
"Every day." The admission comes easier than it should. Maybe because he's not looking at me, or because something about the domestic rhythm of cooking breakfast makes confession feel less dangerous. "He had opinions about everything. What I wore, how I styled my hair, when I spoke, what I ate."
I hear the whisk stop. Feel his attention sharpen.
"He said it was because he cared," I continue, unable to stop now that I've started. “That he wanted what was ‘best’ for me. But it never felt like care. It felt like he was trimming me down to fit some box he’d already built. Someone smaller. Quieter. Easy to control." I swallow. "And when I pushed back, even a little, he’d…change. "
The silence that follows is heavy. I risk a glance at Jason and immediately wish I hadn't. His jaw is locked, the muscle jumping beneath his beard. Then he breathes out slowly and the tension eases slightly.
"He was wrong," Jason says, voice flat and certain. "About all of it."
The words punch through my chest. Simple. Absolute. No room for argument.
I turn back to the toast, blinking hard. "You don't even know me."
"Know enough." He plates the eggs, dividing them evenly. "Know you're brave enough to run. Smart enough to survive. And he was a damn fool if he couldn't see what was right in front of him."
Heat floods my face. I busy myself with the toast, transferring it to the plates he's set out, but I can feel his gaze on me.
We eat at the table, and it should feel awkward—this forced domesticity with a man I met less than twelve hours ago—but it doesn't.
It feels... easy. He doesn't fill the silence with empty chatter, and I don't feel pressured to perform or entertain. We just exist together in the quiet morning light, eating breakfast while snow drifts past the windows.
Somehow I manage to burn my tongue on too-hot coffee and hiss.
"Slow down," he says, and there's dry amusement threading through his tone. "It's not going anywhere."
"Force of habit." I set the mug down, embarrassed. "I'm used to rushing through meals. He didn't like it when I lingered."
Jason's fork stops halfway to his mouth. He sets it down with deliberate care. "Say his name."
I blink. "What?"
"His name." Jason leans back in his chair, arms crossed, expression unreadable. "You keep calling him 'he' like he's a ghost. He's not. He's just a man. And men break."
The underlying threat in those words should scare me. Instead, something hot and fierce unfurls in my chest.
"Daniel," I say. Testing the shape of it. "Daniel Hill."
Jason nods once. "Good. Now I know what to call him if he shows up."
If.Notwhen.Like Jason's already decided the outcome of that encounter, and Daniel doesn't stand a chance.
"He won't," I say, but my voice wavers. "He doesn't even know I'm here. No one does."
