Steam rises from the eggs. The toast is golden brown, glistening with butter. My mouth waters despite my best efforts to ignore it.
Don't give him the satisfaction, I tell myself.
But my body has other ideas. My feet carry me toward the table, and I find myself standing there, staring down at the plate like it's a trap designed specifically for me.
It probably is.
I sit anyway.
The first bite is humiliating, an admission of weakness I can't take back. By the third, I've stopped caring about pride and started shoveling food into my mouth like I haven't eaten in days.
I refuse to look at him or acknowledge his presence in any way. I don't thank him.
But I clean the plate.
When I'm done, I push it away and stare at the wall. My cheeks burn with shame at how quickly I caved. I couldn't even hold out for one meal, couldn't maintain the smallest act of defiance against him.
What chance do I have of surviving seven days?
Phoenix rises from the sofa and takes both plates to the sink. He washes with soap and water, dries them and puts them away.
I watch him move through the small space with an efficiency that suggests he's done this a thousand times before.
Stop it, I tell myself. He's not a serial killer. He's just an asshole.
But the distinction feels dangerously thin right now.
"It's late," Phoenix says, breaking the silence. "We should sleep."
"I'm not tired."
Another lie. My body is screaming for rest. The adrenaline that carried me through the dinner, the confrontation, and the drive has completely drained away, leaving nothing but bone-deep exhaustion in its wake.
Phoenix doesn't argue. He just crosses to the bed, pulls back the thick quilt, and slides underneath. He's still fully clothed in his t-shirt and sweats.
He reaches over and clicks off the lamp on his side of the bed, plunging the cabin into darkness broken only by the faint glow of moonlight through the single window.
"There's room," he says, his voice low and rough, disembodied in the dark. "Or you can take the sofa. Your choice."
I look at the sofa. It's more like a loveseat, barely room for two, with worn cushions. I'd have to curl into a ball to fit, and even then my feet would hang off the end.
I look at the bed, where Phoenix lies as a shadow against the pillows. His large body takes up far less space than it should, and the other side of the mattress stretches empty beside him, waiting for me to surrender.
I look back at the sofa.
Pride. Dignity. Self-respect. The words feel meaningless when weighed against the ache in my bones.
"I hate you," I say into the darkness.
"I know."
"This doesn't mean anything."
"I know."
"If you touch me, I'll kill you."
A pause, and then his voice comes back soft and almost amused. "I know."
