I tell myself that, like it’s a spell.
But fear doesn’t care about logic. It cares about memory. About the way he used to step into my space, as if he owned it.The way he made me feel small and chosen and disposable all at the same time.
I feel stupid.
That part hurts almost as much as the panic.
How did I not suspect the number? The vague language. The decision not to name the kitchen. I walked right into it because part of me still wanted to believe the world could be neutral. That opportunity could exist without strings. That my past would stay buried if I didn’t dig it up myself.
Naive. Careless. Weak.
The words line up, one after another, eager to tear me down for him.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
No.
I’m not doing this right now.
I can’t afford to unravel in here while there’s laughter down the hall and people who didn’t do this to me trying to hold me gently.
So I shove it down.
Fold Marcus and the café and the sound of his voice into something small and sharp and contained. Lock it away in the mental drawer labeledlater, even though I know later is going to hurt like hell.
I drag in a slow breath. Then another.
My chest still aches. My hands still tremble.
But the panic dulls enough for me to move.
Enough for me to stand.
Enough for me to pretend, for now, that he doesn’t get to follow me into this room.
Not tonight.
I have work to do.
I stand before my thoughts can catch up.
The hallway is dim, lit only by warm light spilling from the kitchen. I pause automatically, bracing myself, shoulders tightening as they always do when I step back into shared space.
Instead…
I stop short.
Silas is at the stove, cooking.
Actually cooking.
He’s stirring with focus, an apron tied crookedly around his waist, sleeves pushed up, hair falling into his eyes. Caleb stands at the counter beside him, methodical and calm, chopping vegetables with precision. A pot simmers softly nearby.
The kitchen smells incredible.
“Oh,” I say.
It comes out small.
