I want to curse him. I want to tell him he has no right to ask me for anything. No right to lie in my bed and look at me like I'm something precious when he's probably been texting his girlfriend in Chicago this whole time.
But the words won't come.
Instead, I look at him.
He's pale. Too pale. The color has drained from his face, leaving his skin almost gray against the white pillowcase. Dark circles ring his eyes. His jaw is covered in stubble that's past the point of attractive and into the territory of neglect.
I think about the soup cooling on the nightstand.
If I leave, he might not eat.
He's stubborn enough to let the soup go cold. To skip the pills. To lie here in silence and pretend he doesn't need anything from anyone.
But if I stay?—
If I stay, he might actually pick up the spoon.
"Fine," I hear myself say. "I'll stay. But only if you eat," I add quickly. "All of it. The soup, the crackers, the pills. Everything on that tray."
Dante nods. "Deal."
I look around the room. There's nowhere to sit except the bed itself. The chair I usually keep in the corner is buried under a pile of clean laundry I haven't put away yet.
I could stand. Lean against the wall with my arms crossed and watch him eat like a prison guard.
But that feels wrong somehow. Too hostile. Too much like I'm punishing him for something he hasn't done yet.
I grab the chair. Shove the laundry onto the floor. Drag it across the carpet until it's positioned beside the bed. Close enough to reach the tray if I need to. Far enough that I'm not touching him.
I sit down.
Dante watches me the whole time. His eyes track my movements like he's memorizing them.
"Eat," I say.
He reaches for the tray.
He picks up the spoon.
The first bite is tentative. He brings it to his lips. Blows on it gently. Takes a small sip.
I watch his throat move as he swallows.
"Good," he says quietly.
"It's soup. It's not complicated."
"You made it."
"I followed a recipe online. Anyone could do it."
He takes another bite. Then another. The spoon moves steadily between the bowl and his mouth.
I sit in the chair with my hands folded in my lap.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dante
