The meal is warm and fragrant, but I can barely taste it. I force myself to eat anyway, spoon after spoon, each mouthful feeling like it’s passing through cotton. He doesn’t speak as I eat, but I can feel his gaze on me—unblinking, as if watching me is the only thing holding him together. His chair is too close, his knee brushing mine beneath the table.
I finish the last of my soup and murmur, “Thank you for dinner,” as I rise to collect our bowls.
He’s up before I reach the sink.
“You don’t have to do that,” he says, stepping in behind me, voice low near my ear. His hands close gently over mine, stilling my movements. “I’ll take care of it. You’re tired.”
“I can rinse?—”
He’s already pulling the dishes from my grasp. “No.”
He turns on the tap and washes my hands instead—his fingers moving over mine, slow and careful, the water warm between us. I stand there, disarmed, watching the way his brows furrow in concentration as if this small act is sacred.
When he shuts off the tap, he dries my hands with a dish towel, tender and precise, then sets it aside and turns me to face him.
His hands cradle my cheeks, his thumbs brushing beneath my eyes. He kisses my forehead, then each cheek, and finally my mouth—soft and unrushed. A kiss meant to anchor.
“I love you,” he whispers. “Go rest. I’ll be there soon.”
I nod, the weight of everything pressing in again—the café, Landon, the car, the tension strung taut between us.
I retreat to the bedroom without a word, crawl into his bed, and burrow beneath the sheets. The pillows smell like his cologne, like something warm and cedar-laced. I close my eyes and let it all fold around me, exhaustion catching up at last, pulling me down.
I feel the mattress dip beneath his weight moments later, the shift in the air that follows him always. His hand finds the crown of my head, stroking slow, coaxing lines through my hair.
“Come back to me, baby,” he murmurs.
I keep my back to him, pulling the blanket tighter around me. “I’m here with you, aren’t I?”
His lips brush against my temple. “No,” he breathes. “You’re drifting away. I feel it—you’re miles away from me.”
I don’t answer. I don’t know how.
His arm snakes around my waist, pulling me gently into his chest. His heartbeat thuds steadily against my back, but his grip tells another story—too firm, as if afraid I’d bolt the moment he lets go.
“I can never feel close enough to you,” Nathaniel whispers, his lips brushing my ear. “Sometimes I fantasize about burrowing under your skin…sinking into the very marrow of your bones until I’m a part of you no one can tear away.”
My breath catches. I should pull back, ask him what he means, tell him it’s too much—but the truth is shamefully simple: part of me has always yearned for that kind of intimacy too.
His lips press along the curve of my shoulder, down my arm, like he could map my anatomy with devotion alone.
“How did you know where I was tonight?” The question leaves me before I can think to hold it back.
I feel him stiffen behind me, his hand briefly tightening over my stomach, but his voice remains smooth when he replies. “I always know where you are.” A pause. “Why does it matter?”
That wasn’t an answer, and the way he sidestepped it feels deliberate.
My fingers curl into the blanket. “Did you know who I was meeting?”
“You certainly didn’t tell me you were meeting Landon.” His voice hardens slightly, but the calm exterior doesn’t crack. “Maybe you should ask yourself why that is.”
Frustration sparks beneath my exhaustion. He doesn’t deny anything, but it’s clear that he doesn’t intend to explain himself either.
I sit up, yanking myself from his arms and wrenching free of the blanket.
Nathaniel follows immediately, reaching for me. His hand closes around my wrist, firm but not rough.
“Don’t touch me,” I snap, jerking away from him.
