“What do you need right now? In this moment?”
She’s quiet for so long I think she won’t answer. Then: “To feel like I’m not too much.”
“You’re not. My turn to answer.” I plate the pasta and set it in front of her. “What do I need? For you to eat. To stop trying to disappear. To believe me when I say Nathan was wrong about you.”
She picks up the fork, takes a small bite. Then another.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“For the food?”
“For seeing me and not the mess Nathan left behind. But me.”
The words settle between us, heavy with meaning.
“I see you,” I confirm. “Question eleven, breaking the rules. Will you stop trying to disappear?”
She meets my eyes. “I’ll try.”
It’s a start.
EIGHT
Talia
INEVITABLE
The pasta sitswarm in my stomach, the first real meal I’ve had in—I can’t remember. Jackson clears the plates, his movements efficient, controlled. Everything about him is controlled. Even when he talked about sex—about us, about the chemistry he claims burns between us—it was all so pragmatic. Clinical, almost.
You want me. I want you. The air practically ignites when we’re in the same room.
Like he’s describing a chemical reaction. Cause and effect. Simple physics.
Maybe that’s all it is for him. Bodies responding to stimuli. Arousal as a biological imperative. No emotion necessary, no connection required. Just friction and release.
Nathan always said I overthink everything, but at least he pretended there was emotion involved. Told me he loved me, even if his actions said otherwise. Even if his love came with conditions and criticism and constant reminders of my failures.
But Jackson? He strips it down to base components. Want. Need. Response.
It’s almost refreshing in its honesty. Terrifying, but refreshing.
“You’re thinking too loud again.” His voice cuts through my spiral.
I look up. He’s gripping the edge of the counter, knuckles white. A muscle ticks in his jaw.
“Sorry, I?—”
“Don’t apologize.” The words come out rough. He pushes off from the counter abruptly. “I need a shower.”
The shift is so sudden it takes me a moment to process. “Okay?”
“Don’t go anywhere. Don’t order anything. Don’t call anyone. Don’t answer the door.” He’s already moving toward the bathroom, not looking at me. “Just—stay put.”
“For how long?”
“Until I’m done.”
The bathroom door closes. The lock clicks. The shower turns on.
