"I'm fine." I reach for him again but he catches my wrists, holding me at arm's length. "Declan, seriously, I'm?—"
"Not fine." His dark green eyes scan my face like he's cataloging evidence. "You've lost weight. And when's the last time you slept a full night?"
The attention feels too intense, too exposing. I pull my wrists free and cross my arms over my chest. "I'm handling it. School, work, everything—I'm handling it."
"You're killing yourself." He says it flatly, like a fact he's stating for the record. "And for what? You won't let me help withtuition. You won't let me help with rent. You work yourself to death for scraps when I could?—"
"When you could what?" The words snap out sharper than I intend. "Take care of me? Make me dependent on you like some kind of kept woman?"
"That's not what I?—"
"Isn't it?" My arms tighten around myself, armor against the hurt that flashes across his face. "I need to make my own way, Dec. I need to know I can stand on my own two feet without anyone's money propping me up."
"It's not anyone's money." His voice drops lower, dangerous. "It's mine. And I want to give it to you. Why is that so fucking wrong?"
Because it scares me. Because depending on someone means they can leave. Because Mom depended on doctors and medicine and in the end none of it mattered. Because loving Declan already gives him enough power to destroy me—I can't hand him my survival too.
I don't say any of that. Instead: "I just need to do this myself."
He stares at me for a long moment, jaw working, muscles tense with the effort of not pushing harder. Then he exhales slowly and reaches for my hand, his touch gentle despite the frustration still written across his features.
"Come on." He tugs me toward the kitchen. "At least let me feed you. That's not dependence, that's basic fucking care."
The kitchen is all marble and stainless steel, pristine in a way that suggests professional cleaning rather than lack of use. Declan guides me to one of the bar stools at the island and I climb onto it, watching as he moves through the space with surprising ease. He pulls ingredients from the fridge—fresh pasta, cream, chicken, mushrooms—and sets them out with practiced efficiency.
"You cook now?" I can't keep the surprise out of my voice.
"Someone has to feed you." He's already heating a pan, adding butter that sizzles and foams. "Can't rely on coffee and hope."
"That's not my diet?—"
"Zola." He looks at me over his shoulder, something raw in his expression. "Let me take care of you. Just this. Just food. Please."
The please does something to my resistance. I nod, subsiding into silence as he cooks. He moves with the same controlled precision he applies to everything—measuring, stirring, tasting. The kitchen fills with the smell of garlic and cream, rich and comforting. My stomach growls in response and his mouth quirks in satisfaction.
"See? Your body knows what it needs even if you're too stubborn to listen."
"I'm not stubborn."
"You're the most stubborn person I've ever met." He's plating the pasta now, generous portions that steam in the cool air. "It's one of the things I love about you. Also one of the things that makes me want to lock you in this house until you remember how to take care of yourself."
The casual way he says love makes my chest tight. He sets a plate in front of me, along with a fork and napkin, then leans across the island to press a kiss to my forehead.
"Eat."
I do. The first bite is heaven—creamy, savory, exactly what my body's been craving without me realizing it. I make an involuntary sound of pleasure and Declan's eyes darken with satisfaction as he watches me.
"Good?"
"Amazing." I take another bite, suddenly ravenous. "When did you learn to cook like this?"
"Been practicing." He comes around the island to stand beside me, one hand resting on the small of my back. "Figured if I could get you to at least eat when you're here, that's something."
The gesture is so unexpectedly tender that emotion clogs my throat. I swallow it down with another forkful of pasta, trying to find words for the complicated knot of feelings in my chest. Gratitude, frustration, love, fear—all of it tangled together.
"You don't have to take care of me," I say quietly. "I'm not your responsibility."
"Yes, you are." His hand moves in slow circles on my back, soothing. "That's what this is, love. That's what we do. Taking care of each other."
