“I was,” I admit. “I am.”
He nods once. “That tracks.”
I huff out a weak breath that might be a laugh. “You’re not mad?”
“No,” he says without hesitation. “I was hurt. Different thing.”
That lands heavier than anger would have.
“I didn’t want to need you,” I whisper. “I’ve learned the hard way that needing people can get… twisted. Used against you. Or turned into something ugly.”
Caleb shifts, uncrossing his arms, then thinks better of it and leans back again, giving me space. Always space.
“I know,” he says quietly.
I study his face, the familiar lines of it softened in the firelight.
“How?” I ask.
He considers the question, then answers honestly. “Because I’ve been left.”
The words sit between us.
“My mom loved me,” he continues. “Still does. But loving someone and staying are different skills. She was always chasing the next version of herself. I learned early that if I wanted people to stay, I had to make myself… useful. Easy.”
My throat tightens.
“So when you pulled back,” he adds, “it didn’t make me angry. It just made me wonder what I’d done wrong.”
The guilt is sharp and immediate.
“You didn’t,” I say quickly. “Caleb, you didn’t. This is all… me.”
He smiles faintly. “I know. That’s why I waited.”
“For what?”
“For you to come back to yourself,” he says simply.
The room feels warmer suddenly. Or maybe I do.
I swallow, nerves buzzing under my skin. “I should tell you what happened. Not the internet version. The real one.”
His expression doesn’t change, but his posture shifts.
“You don’t have to,” he says.
“I want to.” I stare at my hands for a long second before I trust my voice. “Marcus didn’t start out cruel,” I say. “That’s the part people don’t understand. If he’d been awful from the beginning, I would’ve run. Or at least known what to call it. He was… attentive. He remembered things. Tiny things. How I liked my knives stored. That I hated wasting herbs. He’d notice when I was tired before I said anything. He made it feel like we were a team.”
“That’s how you hook someone,” Caleb murmurs.
I nod. “He’d say things like, ‘I don’t trust many people, Delaney,’ or ‘Most cooks crumble under pressure, but you don’t.’” My mouth twists. “I thought it meant I was strong.”
“You were,” Caleb says.
“I was compliant,” I correct quietly. “There’s a difference.”
His jaw tightens, just a fraction.
