Silence.
He doesn’t fill it. He doesn’t shift uncomfortably or look away or offer some deflection. He just absorbs the question and locks it behind those unreadable eyes.
“That room upstairs,” I continue slowly, “the seasons room. It’s beautiful. Are you the artist?”
He shakes his head once.
“Well, whoever did it… it’s stunning.”
“You were snooping.”
I let out a small, incredulous breath. “Of course I was snooping. There was nothing else for me to do.”
“You could have baked more.”
I gesture at the chaos around us. “If I baked any more, you’d have to start eating your way down the staircase.”
He doesn’t smile. But something in his eyes almost does—a fractional shift, there and gone so fast I’d dismiss it if I hadn’t been watching for exactly that.
And Iamwatching. It’s instinct at this point. I’m trained to look for tells. For flinches. For the way guilt lives in the shoulders or how grief tightens a jaw.
With him, there’s almost nothing. But almost nothing is still something.
“How do you know me, Reth?”
He crosses his arms, one hand tucking beneath his opposite bicep, fingers pressing briefly into muscle before going still.
“I don’t.” The lie lands between us and just sits there.
“I don’t have to see your full face to know that’s not true.”
His gaze sharpens.
“The apple cinnamon muffins,” I press. “Those are my favorite.”
“Coincidence.”
“The shampoo upstairs is the same brand I use.”
“It’s popular.”
“The clothes fit.” I step closer without realizing I’ve moved. “And I’m willing to bet the clothes you brought with you are exactly my size.”
His eyes don’t answer immediately. They drop instead. Slowly. From my face… to my throat… lower, the intensity of it causing me to shift my weight.
When they return to mine, it feels like being caught. “Lucky guess.”
I straighten my spine, like posture alone can stitch my composure back together. “Okay.” I nod once. “We’ll go with that. For now.”
I turn back to the counter and pick up the knife again, slicing another piece of lemon loaf—slower this time. The flour has settled. The kitchen smells like citrus and warmth and something that almost resembles ordinary, and I am acutely aware of exactly how far behind me he’s lurking.
“So, what do you do?” I ask. “Or is kidnapping women what you file your taxes under?”
“Children’s book illustrator.”
I stop mid-slice. “What?”
“For tax purposes.” He shrugs, and even behind the buff I can see him smirking.
