If I can get him talking, even a little, I might learn why I’m here. Or how long he plans to keep me.
One opening. That’s all I need.
I sit on the edge of the bed as my eyes flick toward the door every few seconds, waiting for the sound of footsteps. This coffee isn’t just about caffeine. It’s a small slice of defense, a possible life raft.
My mind races through the lines I’ve planned, each one designed to pull him in, to draw something human out of him.
Finally, the door opens, and he steps inside with a steaming mug in his hand. His expression is as unreadable as ever, a mixture of control and distance that grates against every nerve.
I swallow my frustration and offer him a soft, worn-down smile.
“Thank you,” I say, keeping my voice low, almost tired. I let my fingers curl around the mug, savoring the warmth that seeps into my hands.
“It’s no latte, but it's all I got."
“For a while there, I thought you drove out to the French Quarter to get me that latte after all.”
He doesn’t respond or even crack a smile. The quiet stretches uncomfortably.
I take a sip, more for something to do than because I want it. The coffee is bitter and too hot, the tang of it sharp at the back of my throat as it goes down.
“You know,” I say after a moment, keeping my voice low, “you can’t just keep me locked up in here forever.”
I glance toward the window, the thin slice of daylight it offers, then back to him.
“At least tell me what’s going on. Am I just… here? Or do you plan to let me see more daylight than that?” I nod with my head toward the single window in the bedroom.
He shifts his weight, the slightest hint of discomfort crossing his features. "It's necessary," he says, his voice measured. "For now. You’ll go home eventually.”
"Necessary?" I echo, raising an eyebrow. "Necessary for what? Punishing me? Detaining me for reasons you won’t explain? Won’t you at least tell me why I’m here?”
He exhales slowly, his gaze hardening slightly. "It's not about punishment. It's about making sure things stay under control while I deal with a situation I can’t leave unattended.”
I tilt my head, feigning curiosity while my mind races. Business? Does this have something to do with the drop I did the other night? I need to keep him talking.
"Under control," I repeat. "Sounds like you have a lot on your plate."
He meets my eyes, and for a moment, I catch a flicker of what looks an awful lot like weariness. "You could say that."
I take another sip of coffee, letting the heat ground me.
“You know,” I say lightly, “for someone who goes to all this trouble to lock me up, you’re remarkably quiet about it.”
His eyes flick to mine. “You prefer a speech?”
“I prefer to know why I’m being restrained by someone I don’t know,” I say. “Silence feels like a power move. We’re here, why can’t you at least tell me why you’re keeping me here?”
“It is power,” he says. “Don’t misunderstand that.”
I huff a soft laugh. “Of course not.”
The mug burns the palm of my hand slightly. I welcome it. “My father used to do that. Say nothing and let everyone else fill in the gaps. Half the time, the fear did his work for him.”
Something shifts in his expression. Not much, but enough that I notice the change when I mention my father.
“That tactic works,” he says. “Until it doesn’t.”
I glance at him over the rim of the mug. “So you’re not new to it.”
