So I behave. I fix myself a meal—a freezer-burned chicken patty from the Sub-Zero's depths, dressed with three slices of processed cheese and ranch dressing that's been in the door since only God knows when. With a hint of theatrical disgust for my own slovenliness, I leave my dish in the sink—a gift forwhichever underpaid staffer wanders in on Monday. Then, on my phone, I read the news. I check three different sites to find mentions of me. There’s nothing. The world only notices when blood is spilled or money is lost.
The clock hits 2:00 when Cade finally returns, trailing woodsmoke and evidence of the afternoon rain on his shoulders. His eyes slide past me with deliberate care, the avoidance itself an accusation. I bite back a dozen cutting remarks and opt for our usual charade of normalcy. I ask, perfectly casual, "Did we get any mail?"
No answer, but a small pile thuds onto the counter. He sorts through it, plucking out a glossy letter from the state university for me and a ValuPak addressed to "Current Resident" for himself. This time, I thank him. I flash him a smile that's all teeth. "So chivalrous, Agent Cade. Like something out of a handbook for gentlemen callers."
The air fractures. He rifles the rest of the mail as if it might bite him. Next, he stalks to the sink and runs the tap, refilling his glass with an efficiency that seems well-practiced. He leans against the sink, arms crossed, and stares out at the barren yard. Even his silence is professional.
"You don’t have to be here, you know," I toss at him, voice light. He doesn’t move. Maybe he can't. Maybe he’s bracing for me to attack the boundary again. I wonder if it’s even possible to mortify him twice in a row before he goes full stone-faced robot.
"I’m serious." My voice comes out sharper than I mean. "You could just clock out. I can survive an afternoon alone in the feudal keep." I gesture at the whole damn house, stretching my smile so wide my cheeks burn. I want some reaction from him, even confirmation that he heard me.
He sets the glass down and stands so still I wonder if I’ve short-circuited him. Finally: "I don’t leave my post." Flat, inflexible.
I try to figure out why that stings. Disappointment spreads in my chest—I want him to care, or at least pretend to. I want to see that he’s affected, like I am. "Okay, then," I say, and get up, moving past him with deliberate slowness. His arm tenses when I’m near, but he doesn’t yield or reach for me. The icy dignity is almost impressive, but I feel small as I leave.
My room is the only place I can still stake out as mine. I close the door—firmly, not dramatically—and flop on my bed. The sheets still smell like last night: sweat, salt, and the faint trace of whatever detergent was on sale. I run my finger along the edge of the pillow, as if I might find a stray hair, proof of his existence outside the security log and the periphery of my vision.
I lie there for a long time, not sleeping, not really awake, circling through the memory of the kiss and the way everything changed after. Emptiness flutters in my chest—longing, regret, hope all tangled together, hard to pin down. I try to name the feeling that fills my lungs, but I don’t have the word, so I settle for not breathing at all.
At 4:00, the hallways are brighter. Gold rays slant through the west windows, catching dust in the air like static. I drift, restless, in and out of the rooms I’m allowed to occupy. I catch him twice: once in the attached garage, on his phone, voice low and clipped, probably updating whatever chain of command monitors bodyguards and troublemakers-in-residence; then again at the patio window, surveilling the empty yard. He stands rigid, the bandage on his hand pristine. I should apologize, but words stick—what exactly is my crime? Wanting something? Or making him want it, too?
I make the next move. I announce it, too, because he loves nothing more than full disclosure. "I’m taking a shower," I call out, waiting for any response. When silence stretches, I goad: "Leaving the door unlocked since you’re so concerned about access points."
That gets him. There’s a long, barely perceptible pause, then: "Fine." I hear him move, heavy as a clock, to the hall outside the master bath. Not in the way—never in the way—but present. He's everywhere and nowhere at once, I realize—a ghost who haunts only the corners of rooms.
I strip off yesterday’s clothes and step under the scalding blast, bracing my forehead against the tile until the steam peels back what’s left of my composure. I let the water run and imagine it’s washing away everything: the panic, the shame, the months spent monitored and managed by my father’s goons. When I twist off the tap and hunt for a towel, the chill hits hard. I wrap the fabric around me and pad, barefoot, back to my room.
He’s there. Not in the doorway, but near the end of the hall, stationed exactly where he could see anyone approaching—and, incidentally, me. I walk past him, barely covered, towel riding far above the knee, and give him my best ice queen stare. If I expected so much as a flicker of acknowledgment, I’m out of luck. He doesn’t turn or even blink. I catch the faintest tension in his jaw, a small tic of resistance, and that’s enough. The win is microscopic, but it’s mine.
At dusk, as the security lights trip on, I find him on the back deck, boots braced apart, arms folded. He’s watching the property line beyond the fence. I slip outside, autumn air bracing on my fresh skin, and stand deliberately just inside his personal radius.
"This is creepy," I say, and—when silence stretches—add, "Do you really think they’ll come back?"
He doesn’t look at me. "Doesn’t matter what I think. It’s not your risk to take."
I want to scream at him for being so stubborn, for refusing to let his mask slip. Frustration builds, then vulnerability slips out. "Do you know what I remember about last night?" I ask, my voice cracking just a little from the effort. "I remember you telling me to breathe. Like I was a kid."
"You were panicking," he says, as if that explains everything.
"And then you held me," I press, watching for any reaction. He still doesn’t move, but I see the pulse jump in his neck. "You could have let go."
He’s silent.
I step into his field of vision, mock armor tight around my torso. I sharpen my words: "This is so much easier for you, isn’t it? Just stand still and let everyone else do the melting down."
He doesn’t say yes or no. But he regards me—no, watches me—with this look I recognize from earlier. Not hate or guilt. Hunger, maybe, or the edge of it.
He rubs his bandaged hand, then shakes his head. "Delilah, what do you want from me?"
"I want you to admit that you’re not indifferent," I snap. "I want you to stop acting like nothing happened when we both know it did. Every time you walk into a room, I know. Don’t pretend you don’t."
He sighs, and the sound is almost human. "This isn’t about what I want," he mutters, and for a second, the mask slips. He looks tired and a little bit ruined.
I poke the bear: "But you do want something." When he stays silent, I edge closer, voice low. "You’re not afraid for me. You’re afraid of what happens if you lose control."
He turns to face me now, and for a second I think he might grab me, or yell, or do something to break the spell. He doesn’t.His gaze is flat and cold, but the pressure behind it is so intense I want to step back.
He looks at me. "That’s not your business." His words bite, but heat sinks beneath them too.