The hallway is empty.
I stand in my doorway for a full minute, listening. The house is quiet. No footsteps. No voices. No music pounding from the basement.
Zero's door is closed. No light underneath.
Is he in there? Sleeping? Avoiding me?
Does he regret it?
Do I want him to?
I don't know the answer to any of these questions.
The stairs are torture. Each step sends a jolt of pain through my body. I grip the railing so hard my knuckles turn white, taking them one at a time like an old man with bad hips.
Halfway down, I hear something. Movement in the kitchen. The clink of ceramic. The hiss of an espresso machine.
I freeze.
It could be Zero. It could be him down there, waiting, ready to look at me with those ice-blue eyes and remind me of exactly what I am. What I let him do. What I wanted him to do.
My heart hammers against my ribs.
I could go back to my room. Hide. Wait until whoever it is leaves.
But I'm hungry. Genuinely, painfully hungry. I haven't eaten properly in days and my body is running on empty. If I don't get food soon, I'm going to pass out again.
I force myself to keep moving.
The kitchen is bright. Sun streaming through the windows, glinting off stainless steel appliances and marble countertops. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust.
Not Zero.
Bane.
He's sitting at the island, laptop open in front of him, a cup of espresso steaming beside it. He's dressed casually—gray t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders, joggers, bare feet. His golden-brown hair is slightly mussed, like he hasn't bothered to style it yet.
He looks up when I enter.
Our eyes meet.
The last time we spoke, he told me I was nothing. Nobody. That even my parents didn't want me.
I wait for the cruelty. Wait for the sneer, the cutting remark, the reminder that I don't belong here.
It doesn't come.
Bane just... looks at me. His expression is unreadable. Not hostile, but not friendly either. Just neutral. Assessing.
"Coffee's fresh," he says. Then he looks back at his laptop.
That's it.
No insults. No attacks. Just... acknowledgment.
I don't know what to do with that.
"Thanks," I manage. The word comes out rough. My voice is wrecked—probably from the sounds I made last night, the gasps and moans and that one broken scream when Zero first pushed inside.
