Soren’s mouth curves again. His eyes don’t.
Memories flood back of how well it hasn’t gone when I’ve let guys know I didn’t need them.
They don’t tend to like that.
Even when it’s true.
Especiallywhen it’s true.
“You do,” he says simply.
Then he walks behind me, close enough that I feel his body heat brush my back, and he reaches past my shoulder to grab something from the cabinet.
It’s such a normal movement. So casual. But my body still flinches inside. Because having someone behind me has never felt safe.
Soren notices.
I feel it in the way his presence stills for half a second. Then he leans down, his mouth near my ear. “You don’t have to flinch around me,” he murmurs.
My stomach flips. I stare down at my plate. “I wasn’t flinching.”
Soren chuckles quietly. “You were.”
He straightens and walks back to the other side of the kitchen like he didn’t just call me out with surgical precision. Like he didn’t just let me know he’s watching everything.
I take another bite. The food is too good. The apartment is too quiet. The morning is too… perfect. It feels like the beginning of a relationship montage, or the beginning of a movie where the woman gets saved.
But I can’t stop thinking about the fact that I didn’t choose any of this. Not the breakfast. Not the way he decided my morning.
Soren checks his phone, then looks up. “What time’s your flight again?” he asks. He’d booked my return flight a day intomy visit, showing me how last-minute non-stop flights out of Ravelle really do tend to pop up at a moment’s notice.
My stomach drops. I swallow. “Two,” I say. The day of my return has arrived earlier than expected, and it still feels like we have unfinished business.
His expression changes. Not dramatically. Just a flicker. Something behind his eyes tightening like a fist. He nods slowly. “Okay,” he says. But his voice doesn’t match the word.
I eat in silence for a few moments, my fork scraping softly against the plate.
Soren watches me. Then he says, like he can’t help himself—“You’re not going back there.”
I pause mid-bite. My fingers still. “What?” I ask.
His tone stays calm. Controlled. Like he’s stating a fact. “Back to that apartment. Back to him. That whole situation. It’s not good for you.”
I set my fork down carefully. “I have to,” I say. “My stuff is there.”
His jaw flexes. “No,” he says. “Your stuff is replaceable. Your mental health is not.”
My pulse kicks. “It’s not just stuff,” I say, my voice tight. “It’s my life.”
Soren steps closer to the counter. His gaze pins me. “You don’t have a life there,” he says. “You have a cage.”
My throat tightens. The words hit too close. Because he’s right. He is. And I resent him for it.
As accurate as his words are—and as validated as they make me feel— I hate how good it is to have someone else say the truth out loud.
Because when he says it, it becomes real.
And if it’s real, then I have to do something about it.