But I'm attracted to her anyway. To her voice. To her presence. To the way she fills space without demanding attention.
And that attraction just adds another layer to the frustration already boiling under my skin.
"I wish I could stay for lunch," Artan says to her. There's something in his voice when he talks to Lily. Something warm and soft. Affectionate in a way Artan never is with anyone.
"That's too bad," Lily says, genuinely disappointed.
The easy familiarity between them grates against my nerves like sandpaper.
"I'll be back later," Artan continues. Still talking to her. Not to me.
Lily's footsteps fade toward the kitchen.
"I'm meeting Erion," Artan says. Finally addressing me. "We're scouting Irish locations. Figuring out where to send our message. Make it clear they need to back off."
"Fine." I don't turn toward his voice. Don't give him the satisfaction of seeing me orient on sound like a dog.
"I'll catch up with you later."
Footsteps. The door opening. Closing.
He's gone.
I'm alone with my thoughts. With the shadows pressing in from all sides. With anger simmering just below the surface.
Time passes. I don't know how long. Could be minutes. Could be an hour. Time feels different when you can't see. Stretches and compresses in unpredictable ways.
"Lunch is ready," Lily says. Appearing suddenly in the doorway. "Whenever you're ready. It's in the dining room."
She's hovering. I can feel it. Staying close. Watching me. Tracking my movements. Ready to jump in if I stumble or misjudge a distance or need help.
Like I'm fragile. Like I'm an invalid who can't walk ten feet without supervision.
I make my way to the dining room. Slowly. Carefully. Hating every second of it.
My hip bumps the doorframe. I catch myself. Adjust.
Navigate around where I think the chair is. Misjudge slightly. My thigh hits the seat. I grab the back. Lower myself down.
Finally sitting.
"I made you a smash burger,"Her voice gentle and soft. Careful in a way that makes my skin crawl. "Caramelized onions, aged cheddar, garlic aioli. And chips on the side. It should be easy and fun to eat with your hands."
Everything stops.
It should be easy and fun to eat with your hands.
The words land like a slap. Like pity wrapped in kindness.
Easy. Because I can't manage utensils. Because I need finger food like a toddler.
Something inside me fractures. Breaks. All the rage and frustration and humiliation I've been swallowing for weeks erupts.
Red. Instant. Unstoppable.
I don't think.
I just react.
