I don't notice it at first.
The days after Sophie's butter knife speech blur together in a haze of exhausted relief and lingering anxiety. Alexander hasn't returned—not yet—but his absence feels temporary, like the pause between thunder and lightning. I know he's out there somewhere, regrouping and planning his next approach. Men like him don't give up. They just change tactics.
Lucas stays closer than usual. He arrives earlier and leaves later, finding reasons to be in whatever room I'm in. His ears are perpetually pink now, that soft sunset shade that means he's worried but trying not to show it. He brings me coffee without being asked—oat milk latte with an extra shot and light foam—and sets it on my desk with our fingers brushing in that now-familiar way.
"You need to eat," he says on the third morning, setting a plate of toast beside my coffee. "You barely touched dinner last night."
"I wasn't hungry."
