"Gordon. He calls you at night. Changes your schedule with no notice. Screams at you — yeah, I can tell which days he screams, your shoulders sit different. Throws your work away." I keep my voice level. Diagnostic. "He treats you like shit, Robin."
"It's the industry." The words come out automatic, rehearsed, the way someone recites a prayer they stopped believing years ago. "You don't understand how professional kitchens work."
"I understand how people work. And a boss who makes you flinch when your phone rings isn't normal."
"I don't flinch."
"You flinch every time. You check the caller ID and your whole body changes. You go from you to someone else — someone smaller. I've watched it happen a dozen times."
"So you've been watching me." His voice goes cold. "Cataloguing my body language. Diagnosing me like one of your engines."
That lands. He meant it to.
"Yeah," I say. "I have. Because I care about you and something is wrong and you won't talk about it."
"There's nothing to talk about. Gordon's demanding. All chefs are demanding. It's a high-pressure industry and you don't get to have an opinion about my job just because we're sleeping together."
The words hit exactly where he aimed them.Just because we're sleeping together.Reducing us to sex. Performing distance.
"We're not just sleeping together," I say.
"Aren't we?"
We stare at each other. The night is cold and Robin's chin is up and his eyes are bright with something that could be anger or could be fear and I can't tell the difference because with Robin they're the same thing.
My lion is growling. Not at Robin — at whatever lives in Gordon's kitchen that makes Robin look like this. That makes him defend the thing that's hurting him. That taught him tostand in front of a man who cares about him and sayit's just the industrylike a shield.
I want to push. I want to name what I see — the pattern, the escalation, the way Robin's bad days are getting closer together and his good days are getting shorter. I want to saythis is not normal and you deserve better and if you'd let me I would fix this.
But I'm not Knox. I don't command. And Robin isn't the kind of person you can fix by taking over — he'd resent it, resist it, perform his way out of it. Robin has to see it himself.
"Okay," I say.
He blinks. "Okay?"
"Okay. I won't push."
"Good."
"But I'm not going to stop watching." I hold his gaze. "And I'm not going to pretend I don't see it. When you're ready to talk about it, I'm here."
Something cracks in his expression. Just for a second — the anger fading to something raw and exhausted underneath. Then the mask clicks back.
"I should go to bed," he says. "Three thirty alarm."
"Yeah."
He doesn't invite me to go with him. I don't ask.
I go home with his scent still on my jacket and his words still in my head.Just because we're sleeping together.He didn't mean it. I know he didn't mean it. But he said it because pushing me away is safer than letting me in, and that instinct is olderthan me and deeper than anything a few weeks of sleeping together can fix.
In my apartment, I sit on my bed and text him:I'm here when you're ready. Not going anywhere.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Long silence.
Then:I know. I'm sorry for what I said.
Don't be sorry. Just be honest with me when you can.