The meat on my plate is tender, soft enough to fall apart beneath the slightest pressure of my fork.
Perfectly cooked.
Almost as if someone spent hours standing over the stove, watching, waiting, making sure everything was just right.
My gaze stays on my plate. I don't look up. I don't need to. I can feel him watching me.
Silas sits across the table.
I don't have to lift my head to know his eyes haven't left me once. They've been fixed on me since the moment I sat down—the same way he stared at that red rose earlier.
The weight of his gaze presses against my skin. Warm. Persistent. Unshakable.
My grip tightens around my fork.
Finally, I look up.
Our eyes meet across the candlelit table, the flame flickering between us like a nervous heartbeat.
"If you're done staring at me," I say, my voice flat, cutting through the silence, "eat your dinner."
Silas blinks.
Once. Twice.
Then nods quickly—almost sheepishly, like a child caught sneaking sweets before dinner.
