He pours coffee—black—and slides it toward me.
Then plates the food, setting it in front of me with the same quiet precision.
It’s perfect.
Tooperfect.
The kind of plating you see in a Michelin-starred restaurant, where everything is intentional, where even the placement of a garnish means something.
Like he wants me to notice.
Like he wants me to understand something I can’t quite name.
“Eat.”
I pick up the fork.
My hand shakes. Just slightly, but enough.
He sees it immediately. His gaze sharpens, narrowing just a fraction. “Why are you shaking?”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” A beat. He steps closer—not touching, just entering my space. Close enough that I feel it. The shift in the air. The awareness of him. “You’re safe here,” he says.
The word lands wrong.
Not because it’s unkind. Because it’s something he controls.
I take a bite.
The food is incredible. Soft, rich, perfectly balanced. My body reacts instantly, hunger rising fast and sharp, like I didn’t realize how empty I was until now.
Soren watches me.
And there it is again—that look.
Not outright pride or satisfaction.
Something quieter. Like something has settled into place exactly the way he expected it to. “There,” he murmurs.
Like he fixed something.
I reach for my coffee.
His hand closes over mine before I can lift it.
I blink. “What?—”
He takes the cup instead, bringing it to his lips. Takes a sip. Makes a face. “You actually drink this?”
“It’s coffee.”
“No,” he says, already turning away. “It’s punishment.”
He moves to the counter, adding cream. Sugar. Stirring without asking, without checking.
Like he already knows.