I sit at the dinner table.

The chair feels foreign beneath me—though I’ve sat here a hundred times before. Something has shifted. The air is different. Thicker. Charged with something I can’t name.

Silas stands in the kitchen, warming the dinner again. I watch his movements—deliberate, careful, like each gesture matters. His eyes stay on his work, catching the soft golden light from the pendant lamp above the island.

He looks like he’s holding something precious. Something worth protecting. A soft smile rests on his lips.

Gentle.

Unshaken.

The warmth of the food spreads through the room—not just heat, but something deeper. Something that settles in the chest and makes itself at home.

Steam rises from the pot, curling toward the ceiling like something released. The scent wraps around me—herbs I can’t name, spices unfamiliar to me.

I look away.

Seriously.

Why did I agree to this?

I wanted to drink until my mind went blank. To sleep. To forget everything.

The food smells delicious. I hate that it smells delicious. I hate that my stomach betrays me with a quiet growl I hope he didn’t hear.

What if it’s actually good?

A smirk touches my lips—slow, cruel, practiced.

Who cares if it is? I’m going to reject it anyway. And then I’m going to punish him.

My fingers tap against the table. Slowly. One by one.

Thumb.

Index.

Middle.

A rhythm I don’t control. A rhythm that fills the silence between the soft clatter of his cooking.

What should I punish him with? What would hurt the most? What would make him understand—

Silas sets a bowl in front of me. The ceramic is warm beneath my fingertips—smooth, weighty, expensive without trying. He moves to the other side of the table and sits across from me.

Close enough to see the flecks in his eyes.

Far enough to feel like miles.

I blink.

Look down. Soup.

Perfectly prepared. The vegetables are cut with precision—small, even, uniform. Like someone took time. Like someone cared. Like someone held each piece between their fingers and thought about who would be eating it.

Steam rises.

The scent follows—earthy, rich, comforting in a way that makes my chest ache.

It smells delicious.

I look at him.

"Do you think I’m a patient?" My voice comes out sharper than I intend. "Making soup for me like this?"

Silas quickly shakes his head.

No.

His eyes are wide. Sincere. He doesn’t take offense. Doesn’t flinch. Just absorbs my words like sand takes in water—and lets them disappear.

He writes something in his notebook. The pencil scratches against the paper—soft, hurried. He slides the note across the table, his fingers pushing it toward me like an offering.

I take it.

I noticed Crystal Country is cold. Even in full summer, the nights feel like winter. So I thought you might like soup.

I stare at the words.

He’s right.

Crystal Country is always cold. Even in summer, when the sun hangs in the sky like a coin someone forgot to spend, the air still bites. The night wind carries something sharp beneath its breath.

And in winter— the country buries itself in snow. The sun barely rises. Days bleed into nights until you can’t tell them apart.

For someone new here... it’s easy to notice.

He writes another note. Slides it toward me.

This is a special soup recipe from my country. I’m sure you’ll like it.

I set the note aside. The paper feels thin between my fingers—fragile, like it might tear if I breathe too hard.

"We’ll see how your special soup tastes."

I take the spoon.

The metal is cool against my fingers. I dip it into the bowl—the surface breaks, vegetables shifting beneath the broth. I lift it to my lips.

The soup is hot. I blow softly, watching the steam scatter. The surface ripples.

Then I take it into my mouth.

It’s surprisingly good.

The taste spreads across my tongue—slow at first, then all at once. It blooms like something alive. The spices are balanced. Neither sharp nor sweet. Something in between. Something that exists in the space where flavors meet and settle.

Different. Something I’ve never tasted before.

Silas’s eyes stay on me.

Waiting.

Patient.

Hoping.

I feel the weight of his gaze—soft, but insistent. Like a hand resting on my shoulder.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His whole body asks the question: Do you like it?

I set the spoon down in the bowl. The clink echoes in the quiet kitchen.

I look at him.

What should I do?

This is... really good.

My voice comes out flat. Empty. A mask. A lie, smooth as silk.

"This is your special recipe?" A pause. "It’s ordinary. I don’t like it."

Silas’s smile fades.

Slowly.

I watch it happen—like a candle burning out. The light in his eyes dims. The warmth drains from his face. Something shifts beneath the surface—subtle, but there.

He looks down at the bowl.

Quiet.

Still.

I slide the bowl toward him. The ceramic drags lightly across the glass surface—the sound sharp in the silence.

"It’s not good."

Silas’s hands twist in his lap. His fingers curl into the fabric of his trousers—tightening, searching for something to hold.

Nervous. Waiting. Bracing.

"Now." I lean back in my chair, arms crossed. The motion is slow, deliberate. "Are you ready for punishment?"

He nods.

Slowly.

His eyes stay on the soup. On the bowl he prepared. On the meal I rejected.

I watch him.

His expression shifts—just a flicker, there and gone. Like a cloud passing over the sun.

I stay silent.

For my whole life—every day, every hour, every breath—I’ve known what’s in a person’s mind. Anyone who sits in front of me, I see through them. Their fears. Their secrets. Their hidden knives. The soft places they keep guarded.

I’ve never had to guess. I’ve never had to wonder.

But this— This is the first time. I can’t read him. And I’m curious.

Eager.

The word feels wrong in my own thoughts. Eager. Like something I’m not supposed to feel.

I want to know what he’s thinking. Is he sad? Planning something? Building a defense—some quiet shield against me?

But Silas just looks at the soup.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t write. He just waits. Like punishment is something he’s willing to accept. Like he’s already decided.

I look away. The room feels smaller. The walls closer. The air thinner.

I hate cheating.

The thought comes unbidden—unwelcome, but true.

No matter what happens. No matter who stands in front of me. I hate winning through lies.

That’s why I always hated when my father took me to boardrooms. To important meetings. Since I was little—just a boy in expensive clothes, sitting in a chair too big for him, listening to the secrets of strangers.

My father’s weapon.

His advantage.

His son who could see through walls.

I cross my arms tighter.

"Say what you want."

Silas looks up at me.

Surprise flickers across his face—then confusion. His brows draw together, just slightly, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle he didn’t know existed.

I meet his eyes.

"The soup was delicious."

A pause.

"I don’t go back on my word. I said I’d grant your wish if I liked it."

Another pause.

"So. Tell me what you want."

Silas’s smile returns.

Quickly.

Like a match struck in the dark—the flame catches, spreads, illuminates. His whole face lights up. Warmth floods back into his eyes.

His shoulders loosen.

He grabs his pencil. Writes fast—the paper crinkling beneath his hand. Then slides the note across the table.

I take it.

I’m happy you liked it.

Another note slides across the table.

Please let me sleep in your room.

My expression shifts. Something tightens behind my eyes. "Aren’t you being too demanding?"

He writes again. Slides it toward me. I take it—irritation sharp in my grip.

Don’t go back on your word.

I crumple the note in my fist. The paper gives—a small, violent sound.

Seriously...

I stand. The chair shifts back in a clean line. I turn away.

"Only for one night." My voice is sharp. A blade wrapped in silk. "And don’t even think about the bed. You’re sleeping on the couch."

I don’t wait for him. Don’t look back. I walk to my room. Each step feels heavier than the last.

Why the hell did I tell the truth?

I should have lied.

I should have punished him.