Kate doesn’t laugh back. She frowns, her mouth pulling tight as she bends down into the fridge again.
Dean chops again, slow, steady, like he’s scoring the rhythm of my panic into the wood. Each thunk echoes in my skull. I can’t stop watching his hands, those same hands that held my wrists, that tore me apart and then put me back together in the same breath.
When Kate stands, she’s holding a carton of juice, distracted enough that I think maybe the storm passes until Dean slides the plate across the counter toward me.
“Eat,” he whispers.
Kate doesn’t hear. But I do. Oh, I do.
The word lodges itself in my throat like he shoved it down there with his fingers. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. Because she’s right there. Because she could turn around at any second.
I pick up the fork with shaking fingers. My hand trembles so badly the prongs scrape against the plate. Dean doesn’t look at me but his smirk ghosts the edge of his mouth like he’s savouring every second of my terror.
Kate’s phone buzzes on the counter. She groans, grabs it, starts texting with both thumbs while sipping her water. Distracted.
I shovel a bite into my mouth, nearly choking on it, and Dean’s jaw ticks like he’s holding back a laugh.
He leans forward, voice low, quiet enough that only I can hear.
“Good girl.”
The fork slips from my grip, clattering against the plate.
Kate looks up. “What was that?”
My pulse explodes. Dean doesn’t blink. He doesn’t even look guilty—just tilts his head and says, perfectly even, “Dropped her fork.”
Kate nods, distracted again by her phone, but I can’t breathe. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Pushing me. Testing how much I can take before I snap.
And the worst part? My body isn’t fighting it. It’s betraying me. Heat licks up my neck, my thighs ache, and my chest is rising too fast.
Dean catches it all. He drags his tongue across his teeth like he’s already won.
Kate’s phone finally stops buzzing, but she doesn’t put it down. She props her hip against the counter, scrolling, half-smiling, thumbs flying. She’s present, but not really—close enough to ruin me, but not enough to notice she already is.
Dean slides another plate across, the scrape of ceramic against granite so sharp it rattles through my bones. His food. His fork. His claim.
“Eat more,” he murmurs, not even glancing at me.
My stomach lurches. I pick up the fork again, trying to mask the way my hand shakes by stabbing at a piece of toast. My throat is dry, too tight to swallow.
Kate looks up suddenly. “You’re so jumpy today. What’s wrong with you?”
I almost choke. Dean doesn’t move. He just pours himself coffee, slow, deliberate, the liquid curling dark into his mug like ink bleeding into water.
“Long night,” he says. Smooth. Effortless. “Didn’t sleep.”
The lie hits me like a slap. Because he’s not lying. Just not the way she thinks.
Kate rolls her eyes. “Figures. You never sleep.”
She leans forward, bracing her elbows on the counter right beside my plate, her face close enough to mine that if I don’t breathe shallow she’ll smell how wrecked I am.
“You’re definitely hiding something.”
Her tone is playful, teasing but my heart slams against my ribs so hard I swear she can hear it. Dean doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. He just sips his coffee, watching me over the rim of the mug. His eyes say it all. Don’t break.
Kate narrows her gaze. “It’s not a boy, is it? Please tell me you didn’t meet someone here already.”
