"No," he agreed. "I destroy things instead. External instead of internal. But the pressure's the same."
Silence settled between us, but not uncomfortable. Just quiet, like the world had paused to let me piece myself back together. The tremor in my hands had stopped sometime during the crying, though I couldn't say when.
"Now, eat," he said finally.
"I told you, I can't—"
"I know." He released one of my hands but kept the other, using his free hand to reach for the sandwich. "You've forgotten how. Anxiety makes your throat close, makes your stomach reject everything. Your body's been in survival mode so long it thinks digestion is a luxury it can't afford."
He was right, and I hated that he was right. Hated that he could read my body's responses like a medical chart.
"So we go slow," he continued, cutting a piece of sandwich with the edge of the fork. Small, manageable, the size you'd give a toddler. "You don't have to do it yourself. Just open your mouth."
The words should have been humiliating. A grown woman, a doctor, being fed like a child. But something about the way he said it—matter-of-fact, without judgment, like this was just another medical intervention—made it feel less like degradation and more like care.
"Open," he said, holding the fork near my lips.
I could have taken it from him. Could have insisted on feeding myself. Could have maintained some shred of independence and dignity. Instead, I opened my mouth.
The fork slid between my lips, and the simple flavor of turkey and bread and mustard exploded on my tongue. I'd forgotten food could taste like something besides fear and necessity. He waited while I chewed, swallowed, didn't rush me.
"Again."
Another piece, just as small. Then another. Each bite was its own small surrender, admitting I couldn't do this alone. That I needed help. That I needed—God help me—him.
"Why do you care?" I asked between bites, the question escaping before I could stop it.
He paused, fork halfway to my mouth. "You saved my life."
"That's not—that's a debt. Obligation. Not care."
"Maybe." He offered the next bite, waited for me to take it. "Or maybe I see someone who's been alone too long. Who's forgotten that needing help doesn't make you weak."
"Doesn't it?"
"No." His voice went rougher. "Weak is letting yourself die rather than accept help. Weak is giving Brand what he wants—you disappeared, erased, gone. Strong is sitting here letting me feed you when everything in you screams to run."
Another bite. Another small surrender. The sandwich was half gone now, and my stomach hadn't rejected it. Miracle or just exhaustion, I couldn't tell.
"You're safe here," he said, setting down the fork to pick up the soup spoon. "I need you to understand that. Until Brand is destroyed—completely, permanently destroyed—you're under Besharov protection."
"Why?" The word came out small, almost lost.
"Because you looked at me bleeding on your floor and saw a patient instead of a monster." He brought the spoon to my lips, waited. "Because someone needs to stop Brand, and you're the only one with both the knowledge and the evidence to do it. Because—"
He stopped, jaw tightening like he was physically holding words back.
"Because what?"
"Because I can't stand the thought of you running anymore," he said quietly, and something in his voice made my chest tight. "Can't stand the thought of you alone in another basement, shaking hands trying to save people while you disappear piece by piece."
The soup was warm on my tongue, rich with flavor I'd forgotten existed. I swallowed, and he offered another spoonful. We continued like that—him feeding me with infinite patience,me accepting each bite like it was a peace treaty with my own body.
"I don't trust easily," I said when the soup was gone.
"Of course. Who does?"
"I might run anyway."
