Page 28 of Kael

"Morning, Bunny," he said without turning around.

I smiled despite myself. "How do you always know?"

"You breathe loud." He glanced over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth twitching. "And you walk heavy."

"Is that your way of calling me fat?"

He chuckled. "I think we both know it isn't. Come eat. No coffee yet."

I walked to the kitchen island and slid onto one of the stools. He set a plate in front of me: eggs, bacon, toast, and fresh fruit.

I stared at the food, caught in thought. We had a routine now. He made breakfast, I ate, and we sat in comfortable silence, reading or scrolling through our phones. Sometimes he'd tell me about his day; sometimes I'd tell him about mine—the books I was reading, the recipes I was trying, the way the mangroves looked when the sun set.

Normal things. Human things. Non-addict things.

He'd leave for work when he needed to, and I'd spend the day in the house. Rosa would come, I'd read, walk the grounds,and wait. Every night, we'd have dinner, talk, and exist in the same space—two people who had somehow become each other's gravity. Maya said everybody had noticed the changes in him; he was less walled off.

I never asked him about the future again, and he never mentioned it. But I thought about it every single day.

What would happen when he decided I was fixed? When I was no longer a project, no longer a liability, no longer a broken little rabbit he needed to save? What would happen when he let me go?

That thought terrified me. My chest tightened, my stomach twisted, and my hands shook in a way that had nothing to do with withdrawal.

I didn't want to leave. It was so funny how much I didn't want to leave. I had been kidnapped and locked in a room, yet I didn't want to leave. I wanted to stay with him. I wanted to wake up to the smell of coffee and bacon, watch him cook for me, and pretend we were a normal couple.

I wanted him, and that terrified me more than anything he'd ever done.

"Bria."

I looked up. "Huh?"

"You need to eat."

I stared at him. I was always staring at him now. He looked different now that I was fully sober—less monstrous. Tall, broad shoulders, wide chest. His jaw looked like it had been carved out of stone, rough with stubble that made him look dangerous even when doing something as ordinary as flipping bacon.

Then there were his eyes: the eyes of a man who could watch somebody die without blinking... yet somehow still soften every time they landed on me.

It made no sense. He made no sense.

I had never in my life thought about writing a poem, but now I caught myself trying to come up with the words to describe someone like him. How could one man look so much like salvation and damnation at the same time?

"Bria." It was a warning tone.

"Okay, I'm eating."

I picked up my fork, took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. He watched me the whole time.

When I was finished, he kissed my forehead like it was a reward. "I'll be back later tonight. Rosa is upstairs already. I have a surprise for you."

I was in the living room that evening when he came home. He was in a dark suit, no tie, his hair slicked back. He looked like he was about to attend a funeral or close a deal.

I set down my book. "You're dressed up."

"I have a business dinner." He walked toward me, hands in his pockets. "I need you to come with me."

I blinked. "Me?"

"You."