Our eyes meet.
The instinct to step forward is automatic. So is the jolt of fear when I remember I'm not allowed.
My muscles lock.
He sees it. Of course he does.
"Vee," he says quietly, and there is so much in that single syllable. Apology. Helplessness. Anger.
My throat closes.
"Budget's important. Gotta keep the bread coming."
His jaw works. "This isn't—" He stops himself, eyes flicking toward the doorway. "Never mind."
"Okay."
This is what the ban really is: not just the absence of touch, but the thick layer ofunsaidthat settles over everything.
Later, I hear them fighting.
I'm not supposed to be listening. But the house is old and sound carries.
"It's been weeks," Eli says, voice tight. "She's collapsing in on herself."
"She's learning boundaries," Ragon replies.
"She's learning to disappear."
I don't hear the rest.
I slip away before they realize I'm there.
Jasper talks to me sometimes.
He picks his moments carefully.
I'm at the sink one evening, scrubbing a pan that doesn't need it, when he steps into the kitchen.
"You missed a spot."
I freeze.
He nods toward the handle. "Grease. You can feel it when you run your thumb along the underside."
I do. He's right. I scrub it again.
"Thanks."
He leans on the island. "You like cooking."
It's not a question.
"It gives me something to do. People have to eat."
"What do you get out of it? Besides food."
I hesitate.
