I feel awkward sitting here, waiting for instructions. Wearing his T-shirt, as cozy and comforting as that is.
I push back the covers, standing quickly, almost abruptly, like I’m trying to outrun the feeling.
I change into my own clothes, somehow reclaiming my body.
Even if none of it feels entirely like mine.
The living room is just as silent when I step into it. Just as controlled. Nothing askew or overly soft. Nothing accidental.
It doesn’t feel lived in.
It feels curated.
Like everything here exists because he decided it should.
I hear the bathroom door open. A few moments later, Soren walks out, hair damp, skin still warm from the shower, gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips.
He looks at me.
Not surprised that I got up.
No question.
Just a single nod. “Okay.”
My chest tightens. “Okay what?”
He steps closer. “You look like shit,” he says calmly. “Still the most gorgeous woman on the planet—but foryou? Like shit.”
My breath catches. “That’s some wild backhanded compliment. And I’m fine.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying me like I’ve just said something mildly incorrect. “You’re not,” he says. “You need more quality sleep. I’ll make sure you get it.”
It lands like fact. Like my opinion doesn’t factor in.
He ushers me through the living room and into the kitchen.
The shift in space is immediate. Where the rest of the apartment is controlled, this feels even more precise. Clinical almost. Every surface gleams. Every line is clean. Stainless steel, marble, glass—nothing soft, nothing out of place.
It looks less like a kitchen and more like somewhere something is executed perfectly every time. Everything isprofessional-grade, from the double oven to the huge fridge-freezer that looks like it could fit multiple bodies.
There are separate prep zones, and when he touches a couple of panels, they spring open to reveal more top-of-the-line appliances.
“Wow,” I breathe, turning slowly. “I didn’t realize you liked to cook.”
He glances at me, a small, knowing curve to his mouth. “I do,” he says. “When I have someone to cook for.”
Something tightens low in my stomach.
I picture it without meaning to—another female standing where I am, sitting where I’ll sit, being guided through this space the same way I am now. The thought lands sharp.
I wonder how many women he’s brought into this space before me. The thought makes me feel sick.
Then he turns away, already moving. “Sit.” A command, not an option.
I hesitate, just for a second.
Long enough for him to notice.