* * *
I get home to music drifting through the house and the smell of food already in the air. It throws me for a second. It’s too soft, too normal. Adrian only cooks when he’s in a good mood, and that alone makes something in my chest loosen before I can stop it.
I find the table set, candles lit, everything arranged withquiet precision. Adrian is in the kitchen finishing up, and when he hears me, he turns immediately. He walks over and takes my hand, pressing a kiss to my forehead. There’s warmth in him tonight, and I smile at him.
I’m caught between wanting to believe that he is in a good mood, and knowing better. His softness feels like a trap disguised as comfort.
For a split second, Ree’s kitchen flickers through my mind; Laughter, home, hands that didn’t feel like they were waiting for me to get something wrong. And just like that, doubt creeps in.
Maybe I read too much into it, and I’m overthinking everything. Maybe things are getting better and that I can trust him more. Perhaps I can still fix this.
Adrian guides me to the table and places a plate in front of me before sitting down. The candles between us throw soft light across the room, but I can’t settle into it. Not fully.
He starts eating like everything is normal.
I look down at my plate, then back at him. My stomach is still tight from earlier at Ree’s, from food I only just managed to get through. I can feel it sitting there already, heavy and unwelcoming. I don’t understand what he is doing; He knows I’ve eaten.
“Aidy…”
His eyes lift slightly. “Yes, sweetheart.”
I hesitate, fingers curling under the edge of the table. “Thank you for cooking for me. It all looks delicious, but…” I swallow, careful with every word now. “I was at Ree’s for tea. I already ate.”
The air shifts instantly, and his fork stops halfway to his mouth.
A sigh slips out of me before I can stop it.
Slowly, he lowers his fork back onto his plate. Then he stands, and he walks around the table without taking his eyesoff me, and I feel myself shrink under the weight of it. My gaze drops to the table before he even reaches me.
His fingers close gently around my chin and guide my face up.
“I just spent the last two hours preparing this food for you, Elijah,” he says quietly. “You will show your appreciation. And you will eat what I put in front of you.”
Something inside me folds in on itself. My throat burns, and my vision blurs for a second. The command settles over me like a weight I know I can’t lift. I swallow it down and make myself small.
“You’re right,” I say quickly. “I’m sorry. I am hungry. I’ll eat it.”
Something in his expression settles again. He releases my chin and returns to his seat as if the moment never fractured at all.
I pick up my fork, and I eat because there is nothing else to do.
Each bite grows heavier, my stomach tightening in protest, but I don’t stop. I don’t slow. I just finish it. Because finishing feels safer than not.
Adrian talks through dinner like nothing is wrong. I answer when I have to, nod when expected, but most of the time I’m quiet. There’s a pressure in the room that doesn’t lift, even when the plates are empty.
By the time I make it upstairs, I feel sick, not just from the food, but from the weight of everything sitting inside me.
The shower runs too long. I stand under it until the water starts to cool, then step out and dry off on autopilot. The house is warm tonight, so only pajama bottoms, bare chest.
When I step into the bedroom, the lamp is already on. Soft light spilling over the bed. Adrian is there, sitting up against thepillows with a book in his hand, like he’s been waiting without needing to say it.
“There you are,” he smiles as I walk over and climb into bed. “Are you okay?” he asks, resting a hand lightly on my shoulder.
“Just tired,” I murmur.
I stop when I see his expression shift, subtle, but immediate. Like he’s recalibrating something. He closes his book, places it on the bedside table, and turns fully toward me.
“You’ve been tired a lot lately.”
