"All of it, young lady," he said when I tried to leave the crusts.
I ate the crusts.
The relief was devastating. No internal debate about whether I deserved food, whether I'd earned it, whether I could afford the time away from the files. He decided I needed to eat, so I ate. Simple. Clean. Like breathing after holding my breath for six months.
By evening, my body had started anticipating him. Eight PM sharp, footsteps in the hallway, and my pulse jumped before my brain even registered the sound. The door opened and there he was, filling the frame with his presence, that particular look on his face that said the workday was over.
"Laptop closed."
My fingers moved without conscious thought, saving the file, shutting the screen. My body obeying before my mind could form objections.
"Dinner," he said, and I followed him like I was tethered by invisible thread.
The praise came in small doses, each one landing like a physical touch. "That's my little bird," when I finished my plate without being reminded. "Good job," when I went to bed at ten without arguing. The words pooled low in my belly, warm and liquid, making me ache in ways that had nothing to do with food or rest.
Day two started with my body already trained. I woke at seven, showered, and was sitting at the kitchen table when Kostya arrived with breakfast at seven-thirty. The surprise on his face—quickly hidden but there for a moment—made something flutter in my chest.
"Someone's learning," he murmured, setting down scrambled eggs again, but with toast this time, cut into triangles like I was a child who needed manageable pieces.
I was beginning to think I was.
"I aim to please," I said, then immediately flushed at how that sounded.
His eyes darkened, just for a second, before returning to that controlled calm. "Time to eat."
I ate, hyperaware of his presence across the kitchen, the way his attention felt like hands on my skin. Every swallow seemed loud in the quiet morning, every movement of my mouth something he cataloged and approved.
The structure was settling into my bones now, becoming something my body expected. Lunch at noon. Coffee at three with a piece of fruit—"Blood sugar," he'd say, watching me eat the apple slices he'd cut. Dinner at six. Laptop closed at eight. Bed at ten.
My world had shrunk to these markers, these moments of intersection where he appeared and made decisions and I just . . . followed. It should have felt constraining. Instead, it felt like finally putting down luggage I'd been carrying so long I'd forgotten its weight.
The hardest part wasn't the obedience. It was how good it felt.
When he brought lunch on day two, I was already looking toward the door before he opened it. My body knew his schedule now, had internalized it, started craving the structure like a drug. He noticed—of course he noticed.
"Waiting for me?" he asked, setting down the plate.
"Just taking a break," I said.
"Liar." But he said it with warmth, almost affection, and the word made heat crawl up my neck.
I ate while he watched, and this time I was aware of my mouth in a way that had nothing to do with food. The way my lips closed around the fork. The way my throat moved when I swallowed. The way his eyes tracked every motion like he was memorizing it for later.
"You're adjusting well," he observed when I'd finished.
"The structure helps," I admitted, then immediately wanted to take it back. Too honest. Too revealing.
"I’m glad." He reached across the table, and for a heart-stopping moment I thought he might touch me. Instead, he just collected my empty plate, fingers brushing mine in what couldn't have been an accident. "You've been taking care of everyone else for so long, you forgot someone should take care of you."
"Will you keep taking care of me?"
He paused at the sink, shoulders tensing slightly. When he turned back, something in his expression had shifted—still controlled, but with heat underneath.
"Of course," he said. "Until you're ready for what else I want to do."
My thighs clenched involuntarily, and I knew he saw it—the tiny shift, the way my breath caught. His smile was small but knowing.
"Not much longer," he reminded me. "Tomorrow night, if you keep being good."
