Dishes pile up in the sink—plates, the cast iron, the cutting board.
"Leave it," he says, already moving toward the living room, putting space between us.
"No."
He stops. Turns.
"My mess," I say. "I clean it."
"The cook doesn't clean."
"That's not how it's been." I cross to the sink, turn on the water.
He doesn't argue. Just stands there, watching me scrub at the cast iron.
"You should rest," he says.
I scrub harder. "I'm fine."
"Eden—"
"I said I'm fine." The words come out sharper than I mean them to. "I'm scared, okay? I'm not going to pretend I'm not. But I'm not broken. I'm not going to shatter because a car turned into the wrong driveway."
Silence.
Then he's beside me. He leaves a careful gap. Reaches past me for the dish towel.
"I wash," he says. "You dry."
I step aside. Let him take over the sink.
He passes me dishes. I dry them, put them away.
He's careful not to let our fingers touch, every handoff deliberate.
I want to ask what changed, want to say a few hours ago you were pressed against me and neither of us pulled away. But I don't. Because maybe I already know the answer.
Maybe the second he heard tires on gravel, he realized what a mistake this was. Maybe he's been figuring out how to walk it back ever since.
"Thank you," I say when the last dish is put away. "For today. For how you handled everything."
"Nothing to thank me for." He won't look at me. "It's what I'm here for."
It's what I'm here for.
Right. That's all this is. His job.
"Go to bed," he says.
"It's the middle of the afternoon."
"Rest."
My mouth opens to argue. Then I see his face.
He's not looking at me like I'm fragile. He's looking at me like he's the one about to break.
"Okay," I say.
