The admission catches me off guard. I want to ask more questions, to understand what made him stop watching from the edges and finally step forward.
But I don’t. I just watch as he pours the eggs into the pan, the soft hiss filling the space between us. The smell hits me immediately—rich and buttery and so much stronger than it should be. My stomach clenches, a sudden, sharp hunger making my mouth water.
“It’ll be ready in a minute,” he says, not looking up from the pan. “Toast okay?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The herbal blocker I took this morning is definitely wearing off—I can feel it in the tightness returning to my throat, in the way the scents suddenly seem too intense, too present. But it’s different now, somehow. Less overwhelming. More... manageable.
He plates the food, sliding a perfect golden omelet in front of me alongside a slice of toast.
“Thanks,” I say softly.
He nods once, taking the stool across from mine. “Eat,” he says. “Before it gets cold.”
I pick up my fork and cut into the omelet. It’s perfect—just the right amount of cheese, the eggs fluffy without being dry. I take a bite, then another, fighting to keep my expression neutral despite the immediate, bone-deep satisfaction that floods through me.
I still want to blame it on the omega. It would be easier if I could. Easier than admitting how much the simple act of someone noticing what I needed before I said a word means to me.
But even as I think it, I know it’s not that simple. Because part of me—a part I’m not ready to name—is grateful. Not just for the food or the company or even the safety his presence provides, but for the way he makes all of this feel less overwhelming.
“Good?” he asks, watching me from across the island.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. There’s something in his eyes—the focused concern—that makes my throat tight in a way that has nothing to do with whatever’s happening to my body.
We eat in relative silence, the only sound the soft scrape of forks against plates and the occasional comment about the food. He doesn’t push for conversation or try to fill the silence with meaningless chatter.
It should feel awkward. But it doesn’t. It feels... grounding. Like something I can count on when everything else is changing.
“I didn’t expect you to do all this,” I say finally, pushing my empty plate away. “The food. The staying. Any of it.”
He looks up, meeting my eyes steadily. “I know.” After a moment, he adds. I’ll clean up.” he says, reaching for my plate. “You should rest. It’s been a long day.”
I want to argue. Want to tell him I’m capable of washing my own dishes, of taking care of myself, of making my own decisions. But the words die in my throat as I watch him move through my kitchen with efficiency, filling the sink with hot water, reaching for the dish soap without being told where to look.
“Thanks,” I say instead. “For... all of it.”
He nods once, not looking up from the sink. “Get some sleep, Maya. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
The words settle somewhere deep inside me. I push back from the island, suddenly aware of how tired I really am. How the events of the day have left me drained in a way I can’t remember feeling before.
“Goodnight,” I say, moving toward the hallway. “The bathroom’s all yours whenever you’re done.”
He doesn’t answer, just continues washing the dishes. I pause at the edge of the living room, watching him for a moment before turning away.
I head for my bedroom, closing the door behind me with a soft click. The lock is right there, a simple turn of the knob away from safety, from separation, from the distance I’ve been maintaining.
But I don’t reach for it. The lock is right there, one simple turn away, yet I leave it exactly where it is and move to my dresser to grab clothes to sleep in.
It's not that I trust him completely or that I'm sure what this is becoming. I just don't feel like I need the lock between us to keep myself safe.
I change quickly, too tired to overthink the decision. I slip into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. The apartment is quiet now, just the soft sound of water running in the kitchen sink and the occasional creak of the floorboards as Elias moves through the space. It should feel strange having someone else in my home. It should feel like an invasion, a boundary crossed, a line that can‘t be uncrossed.
But it doesn’t. It feels... easy. In a way I didn’t expect.
I close my eyes, listening to the muffled sounds of movement beyond my door. My body feels different now—the restless tension that’s been building since my symptoms started is more manageable now. The heat under my skin settled into a warm, steady glow instead of the sharp, prickling sensation that’s been keeping me up at night.
For the first time in days, I might actually be able to sleep.
I drift toward sleep, my thoughts slowing, my body finally, finally relaxing. The last thing I’m aware of is the soft click of the bathroom door closing, the footsteps moving toward the living room, and the sound of the couch cushions shifting as Elias settles in for the night.
