I reach for the coffee anyway, wrapping my fingers around the mug, focusing on the warmth instead of him. “I’m not that hungry,” I say, light, dismissive, like it doesn’t matter.
His hand closes around my wrist. Not rough, but firm enough that my body stops before my mind does. His touch is warm, but this morning something unpleasant flickers through me, unexpected and unwelcome.
“That’s not good for you,” he says. His voice is calm, even, but there’s something underneath it now. Something quieter. He’s closer than I realized—close enough that I can feel the shape of him at my back, the heat of him bleeding into me.
“I’ll eat later,” I reply, softer now, less certain, like the words don’t carry weight anymore.
There’s a pause that somehow signals displeasure without the need to make a sound. “No, you won’t.” He says it as a statement, not a conversation starter. “You don’t process things when they happen,” he says. “You circle them later.”
My stomach tightens.
He doesn’t move his hand. Doesn’t tighten his grip. There’s no escalation, no visible demand. He just holds me there, like he already knows I’m not going anywhere. “Sit,” he says.
The way he says it isn’t loud or harsh, but it lands that way, settling into my body before it reaches my thoughts, a command that doesn’t need arguing.
I hesitate. Just for a second. Long enough to feel the tension between what Ishoulddo and what Iwantto do.
Then I sit.
The moment I do, he releases my wrist, like the contact was never the point—just the path to get me here.
A plate appears in front of me seconds later. Already prepared, portioned, decided.
I look down at it, then back up at him, something unsettled in my chest. “I said I wasn’t hungry.”
“I knew you’d try not to eat. But you need to give yourself a chance at having the energy you want.” There’s something in the way he says it that makes heat creep up my spine. Like I’ve been exposed. Read too easily.
I take a bite, and my body responds instantly.
Warmth spreads through me, slow and steady, loosening something I hadn’t even realized was tight. My shoulders drop. My breath deepens. And beneath that, something else—a softer reaction. Quieter.
The same low pull I feel when his hand settles at the back of my neck, when his voice drops just enough to make me listen.
I exhale slowly.
He watches me, his gaze tracking the shift like he was waiting for it—like he knew exactly what would happen the second I gave in.
Then he nods once. “Better, yeah?” he says.
I swallow. Nod. Don’t argue.
Because it is.
The resistance I felt a moment ago has already dissolved into something easier and quieter.
Something that feels right.
I eat the rest without thinking about it. Without questioning why it was so easy to stop resisting. Without asking myself why his hand on my wrist still lingers in my mind longer than it should.
When I finish, I feel different. Settled. Not just physically—like something inside me has been adjusted.
He moves past me then, his hand brushing lightly across my shoulder as he goes. It’s brief. But my body reacts anyway, a soft awareness blooming under my skin where he touched me.
“Don’t do that again,” he says. It doesn’t sound like a warning or a threat. It feels like something else entirely.
He’s already decided it won’t happen ever again.
And strangely, that feels easier.