Something tightens in my chest again, lower this time, sharper, and I look down at my hands, focusing on the glass because it’s easier than holding his gaze while he says things like that. “I mean… yeah.”
I don’t tell him about the apartment. Or the cameras. Or how small I’ve made myself just to keep things from escalating.
But he doesn’t ask.
He doesn’t need to.
He saw enough. Enough to reach out. Enough to say come here.
And I came.
That thought sits differently now.
“You’re here now,” he says.
Like that was always going to happen.
Like there was never another version of this.
I nod. “Yeah.”
I’m here.
He watches me for another second, and this time I don’t look away immediately.
I hold his gaze just a fraction longer than I should, and something shifts—subtle, but enough that I feel it.
Then he leans back slightly, like he’s made a decision and set it aside. “Eat,” he says. “You look like you haven’t had a proper meal in a while.”
I laugh softly. “That obvious?”
“Yeah.” There’s no hesitation, no softening, and instead of feeling exposed in a way that makes me pull back, I feel something else.
Seen.
I take another bite, slower this time, and I don’t stop the reaction when it comes.
I let my body settle into it, let the tension ease out in a way I’ve been holding back without realizing how much effort it takes.
And this time, I’m aware of him watching it happen.
Not just noticing.
Watching.
And I don’t stop it.
That’s the part that registers a second too late.
Across the table, his attention sharpens slightly, like he’s been waiting for that exact shift. Like he recognizes it for what it is.
And that—the way he sees it, the way he doesn’t look away,the way it feels like I’m being understood without having said anything—lands low in my chest, unfamiliar and difficult to ignore.
Not wrong.
Not uncomfortable as such.
But not neutral anymore.