He knows what I’m asking. He knows exactly what I want: an explanation. A crack in the mask. Something real. But he just sits there, unreadable, as if I hadn’t flung something heavy between us.
Before I can write again, two waiters sweep in, moving in perfect sync. Plates are set in front of us, one after another, like choreography.
I blink.
When did he even order?
There wasn’t a menu. No one asked us what we wanted. Yet here it is: dishes straight out of a luxury magazine. French toast thick enough to drown in, eggs gleaming under a drizzle of sauce, fruit arranged like a work of art.
My brows knit.
“Dig in,” Alex says, leaning back in his chair, utterly at ease.
I don’t want to. I want answers. I want his voice explaining why the world insists on writing him in blood and headlines.
But my stomach betrays me.
The first bite of French toast melts against my tongue—thick, soft bread, soaked in vanilla, syrup warm and golden. A soft moan slips out before I can stop it..
A low chuckle breaks the silence.
My head jerks up. Alex is watching me, mouth curved, something amused—and dangerous—lurking in his gaze. Heat rushes to my neck, and I grab my coffee too quickly, nearly spilling it just for the excuse to look away.
We eat in silence after that. Or rather, he eats like a man who has the world at his fingertips, and I try not to crumble under the weight of his gaze. My head stays bowed, my heart hammering far too loud for the quiet of this room.
Eventually, I force myself to look up. My chest feels raw, like I’ve scraped the words against it before pushing them out.
“Thank you…” The word rasps, cracked and jagged, but it’s mine. “…for the hearing aids.”
The sound is wrong in my mouth, always wrong. I hate it. I hate how broken it is, how foreign my own voice feels. I never want to use it. Never with anyone.
But with him…
My throat burns. Why him? Why does my body betray me and my brain wire itself to want to give him this part of me I’ve hidden from everyone else? I want to resent him for it. I want to hate him for the way my voice crawls out like a secret I can’t contain.
Alex doesn’t answer right away.
He just watches. Still. Sharp. Silent. As if he’s peeling me open layer by layer, studying the pieces, deciding if he wants to keep them.
And God help me—I want him to.
“How are they?” he finally asks.
For a second, I just blink at him. The question feels too ordinary, too soft in his mouth. I reach for my pen, ready toscribble an answer, safer that way. But halfway through the motion, I freeze. My chest tightens. I don’t want to hide behind paper right now. Not with him.
I drop my hands into my lap, clasping them until my knuckles ache. My throat feels raw, but I force the words out anyway.
“It’s… nice,” I say, my voice unsteady, thin. “So much better than the last. I… like them.”
Silence stretches. It shouldn’t feel this heavy, but it does.
Then—
“Look at me, Lucas.”
The command is low, steady. It slides under my skin, coils around my ribs. I hesitate, biting my lip before I obey.
And when I do, I almost forget how to breathe.
