Satisfied, he turns back to the stove.
“You sleep okay?” he asks.
I nod slowly. “Yeah. Better than I have in a while.”
He smiles faintly. “Of course you did.”
It isn’t arrogant. It’s certain.
Like my rest is something he created.
I lean against the counter and watch him move.
He plates food like he’s composing art. Eggs. Toast.Something green… if it’s the same as yesterday, I think I’ve figured out that it was dinosaur kale. A little avocado. Fresh fruit sliced with obsessive symmetry.
It looks like a professional brunch dish.
It also somehow looks like control dressed up as care.
I’m not used to someone feeding me, deciding what I eat or when. It’s foreign. Nice if I describe it out loud, but it settles strangely in my gut.
He sets a plate in front of me. “Eat,” he says.
My stomach tightens at the word.
Eat.
Notdo you want breakfast?Notare you hungry?Justeat.
I sit down.
I take a bite. And once again, it’s incredible.
Soren doesn’t cook like a normal man. He cooks like he’s proving something. Like he’s building a case.
I chew slowly, feeling my chest loosen despite myself. “Jesus,” I murmur. “This is really good.”
Soren leans back against the counter, espresso in hand, watching me like I’m a performance. “You’ve been eating like crap,” he says casually.
The sentence hits my ribs. I blink. “What?”
He shrugs. “You’re malnourished. I can see it.”
My cheeks burn. “I’m not?—”
“You are,” he cuts in smoothly, like he’s correcting a child. “You’re thin in the wrong places. Your skin’s dull. Your body’s been in survival mode.”
He says it like he’s diagnosing me. Like he has the right.
My throat tightens. I swallow. “I’ve been stressed,” I say quietly, suddenly self-conscious of my form. Of the way he sees me…
Soren takes a sip of coffee. His gaze stays on me. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s why you need me.”
The words land softly, but they don’t feel soft.
They feel like a hook.
I laugh weakly, trying to lighten it. “I’m enjoying my visit, but I don’tneedyou.”