Which Idon’twant to. I would never.
But my eyes drift higher, to the glinting silver of his belt buckle, the compression shirt hugging his chest, the sharp cut of his jaw.
Our eyes meet, and heat flickers across his blue gaze.
Warmth tickles my stomach as I remember his lips on mine, seizing, claiming…
Still he says nothing.
Just retreats a little, giving me space to finish. I force my gaze back down and collect what’s left for the tray. Everything except what matters most.
Hope is a sharp, metallic taste in the back of my mouth as he leaves.
The door closes, and the lock clicks home. I kneel and listen to the fading echo. Wait. Count each heartbeat as if it matters.One,two,three…sixty. Only then do I rise, slowly and carefully, and draw the knife free from my sleeve. When my fist closes around the handle, relief tints my terror.
I have the knife.
My hands shake, and my lungs burn, but the blade sits in my hand.
It’s not much. Dull with a rounded tip. The kind of utensil that squashes more than slices. Utterly inadequate, really, if we’re being honest. But for the moment, it’s mine.
A fragment of real potential cradled by my palm.
I send a silentthank youthrough the air.
I wait for night to descend, until shadows crawl up the walls and every corner becomes a hiding place. I inventory the room.
Sealed windows. A door heavy with locks that don’t so much as rattle. No give anywhere.
There must be something else. In the dark, using only moonlight, I search the rest of the room the same way he searched my home.
A flash of hope blooms within as I check behind a landscape painting on the far wall and find the kind of panel used for electrical circuits or breakers.
For a second, I just stare. Heart pounding, ribs tight.
I lift the painting off its hanger and set the frame aside. Paint clots over the screws of an old panel forgotten by time.
But it’s here. A chance.
With clumsy fingers, I wedge the knife against the first screw. Pushing. Turning. Nothing. The edge slides, useless in the soft aged screw head.
I grit my teeth and twist harder. The knife slips across my finger. As red wells up, bright and slick, I press my lips together. I won’t make a peep. Not for this.
Again.
With the heel of my hand on the flat of the blade, I lean all my weight into the turn. The screw budges a hair’s breadth.
That tiny win is everything.
Faith stirs, shy but sharp.
I can do this.
For hours, I work the panel, over and over, my hands smeared with blood, my arms shaking. The knife buckles, and the handle gives. My fingernails tear. But I don’t let up. I won’t.
Finally, the last screw falls free. Only the paint holds the panel door now. At my last desperate shove with the blunt blade, the hinges scream in protest. As I swing the flat door open, dust billows out.
Tangles of wire and cobwebs vanish into the wall. Three colors ending in copper teeth wait for a mind clever enough to make sense of them.
