“Proud,” he says finally. “No. Relieved, maybe.”
I snort. “Right. Because if I die tonight, who’ll make you dinner?”
Something shifts in his expression—barely, but I catch it. That quick flicker of guilt.
I cross my arms, sweat cooling on my skin. “You can drop the serious act. I’m still annoyed about the pasta thing.”
He exhales through his nose slowly. “Mary—”
“No, really. One minute I’m doing something nice, the next you’re treating me like some idiot who can’t be trusted with boiling water.”
The words tumble out sharper than I mean them to, and still, it isn’t enough. The more I talk, the more the heat rises—tight in my throat, spreading through my chest. I don’t even know if I’m mad at him or just everything else, but it burns anyway.
His jaw works once. “You were never the problem.”
The answer stutters me. It knocks something loose. For a second, he doesn’t look like the man who gives orders and expects the world to obey—he just looks… softer. Human.
“I—what?” I manage, voice smaller than I want it to be. “Then what is?”
He looks past me, somewhere distant, and I almost think he’s not going to answer. Then, quieter, “People who do what I do don’t get to keep nice things.”
That one hits deeper than I want it to. I try to laugh it off, but it comes out wrong.
“Good news, then. I’m not a thing. I’m a liability.”
He steps closer again, slow enough that I could move if I wanted. I don’t. His voice drops, rough around the edges.
“Just be careful tonight. Watch everyone. Trust no one.”
“I already don’t,” I say, trying for lightness. It barely lands.
He stares at me for a long moment, something unreadable tightening behind his eyes.
“I mean it, Mary. I don’t want your blood on me.”
The words are cold, final. But there’s something underneath—something that sounds too much like,“I couldn’t stand it if you were hurt.”
I swallow, searching his face for anything he won’t say.
“You won’t have to clean up after me,” I whisper.
He nods once, slow, then turns for the door. The distance between us fills back up with silence.
“Anton?”
He stops, doesn’t turn.
“If I make it through tonight,” I say, heart hammering, “I’m making pasta again. You can deal with it.”
For a second, he doesn’t move.Just stands there, one hand on the doorframe, the other tightening into a fist. I can’t see his full expression—only the tense line of his shoulders, the stillness that always comes before he walks into a fight.
Then he turns slowly. His eyes meet mine, and the look in them knocks the breath out of me. It isn’t pity. It isn’t softness. It’s something worse. Something that sayshe cares—and he wishes he didn’t.
“Then you better make it,” he says.His tone is calm, steady, but I hear what’s underneath.Don’t you dare die.
The door closes behind him, the sound too final for how much I suddenly want him to stay.
I stare at the empty space where he stood, my pulse still racing, the quiet pressing in.
