But there’s no trace of her. Instead, I see someone who looks like she’s waiting to be scolded.
My stomach twists. I hate him for that. I hatethemfor that.
I hate that I don’t even know whothemis anymore because the faces blur together. Same pattern. Same slow erosion of my confidence until all that’s left is compliance.
I mean, the last one took it to a whole new level, but still.
I swallow and step into the hallway.
The apartment is quiet in the way it always is—not peaceful quiet. Controlled quiet. Like the air itself is listening.
From downstairs, I hear the familiar clink of ceramic. The espresso machine. The hiss of steam.
He’s in the kitchen again. Of course he is. Mainlining espresso as if the additional caffeine will afford him the last speck of enlightenment he so desperately seeks.
My feet hesitate on the first step. I don’t want to go down there. I don’t want to have to perform.
But I also don’t want him to come up here and make a comment about how I’m “hiding” again, like I’m a coward. Like I’m ungrateful. Like I’m a stray dog he took in and now I’m acting feral.
So I go down anyway.
Each step feels like walking into a courtroom.
The kitchen smells like coffee and something citrusy—some overpriced essential oil he’s probably diffusing because he’s obsessed with the idea of being the kind of man who “curates energy.”
Adrian is standing at the counter, bare feet, expensive shorts, T-shirt tucked in like he’s about to give a TED talk.
I’ll give it to him that he’s a handsome guy. But I know that doesn’t happen by accident. He’s fastidious about everything that goes onto his body—a plethora of lotions and serums bursting from the cupboards of the bathroom we share emphasizing the point—and just about everything that goes into it.
He doesn’t look at me when I enter. He’s staring out the window like he’s thinking something profound. Or like he wants me to believe he is.
I hover at the edge of the room. “Morning,” I say quietly.
He hums. Not quite acknowledgment.
A beat passes.
Then another.
He takes a slow sip of coffee, still not looking at me.
And then, finally, he turns his head slightly, like I’m a mild interruption.
“Did you sleep?” he asks.
It sounds like a normal question. But it isn’t.
I know him well enough to know it’s inventory.
It’s always inventory.
I nod. “Yeah. I mean… sort of.”
He makes a sound in his throat—almost disapproval.
I wait for the next question. It always comes.
“What are you doing today?” There it is.