Page 56 of Trust

When I collapse, his hands move to my shoulders, thumbs pressing into the tightest spots. I don’t even realize how sore I am until he starts working them. “Deltoids,” he says. “Front lifts your arm, back keeps you steady.”

I raise a brow. “Are we doing biology now?”

"You should know your body, don’t you think?” His hands are firm but careful, dragging the tension out of my back. He outlines the muscles, treating them as familiar terrain. It’s an anatomy lesson, one that happens to be a little too enjoyable. He tells me anatomy was his favorite subject in school. That tracks. He knows the limits of the human body, how to repair it, and how to break it.

As soon as I’m upright again, he disappears for a minute and returns with a hoodie, thick and comfy. “Here,” he says, handing it to me. “If you’re going to live in sweatshirts, might as well give your mom’s a break.”

I try it on. The fabric is heavy, swallowing me whole. His gaze finds me, pauses for a beat longer than normal, then moves on.

“You okay?” I ask.

He blinks once, his throat working. “Fine.”

There’s a softness in the way he watches me. “Suits you,” he says, almost too casually.

It should be harmless. But it isn’t. I don’t miss the possessive edge to his approval, and I don’t know what to do with it.

Later, while I’m reading on the couch and he’s occupied with his shiny phone, it rings. I catch the name flashing on the screen. It’s Cash.

“Yeah?” he says, low, taking a few steps away. I pick up scraps: dangerous information... more to it... No, don’t push... Ananya says hi. He grimaces at the name, jaw clenching before he hangs up. I don’t ask. He doesn’t offer.

Ananya. That name got a reaction from him. Could be an ex or a killer buddy? Why do I even think about that? It shouldn’t be any of my concern.

After the call, he starts cooking. He’s the kind of person who throws things together and somehow ends up with the best meal you’ve had in weeks. As always, I stick close, ask questions, watch every move, convinced I could pick up the skill by observing closely enough.

“You’re hovering,” he says, keeping his eyes on the pan.

“I’m studying,” I correct.

He smirks. “Same thing.”

In these moments, I’m able to forget about his profession completely, up to the point where I doubt it’s even true. Maybe they just wanted to scare me to keep me in line, and in line I am. I’ve never gone that long without being screamed at, threatened, or grounded. On the other hand, I also haven’t done anything to provoke such reactions. It’s not even hard. I may not be willing to say it out loud, but I like being here.

We eat at the table, talking about books, about random facts he drops into conversation, probably to test how well I’m doing with my SAT prep. I’m convinced he peeks into my notes when I’m in the shower so he knows what to ask. He always smiles when I snap back with the right answer.

It’s crazy. Everything about this breaks the rules of what captivity is supposed to be. Not that I would know, but this is definitely not how I imagined it.

After we clean up, I linger by the table.

“Are you... gonna start the fire again?” I ask almost every day, creating pretty obvious déjà vu situations.

The edges of his mouth tilt upward, but he doesn’t say anything. He heads to the fireplace and gets to work. He takes the armchair as I follow with a blanket and curl up on the couch in the spot right next to him. The flames bloom in front of us. It’s football night again. His scent on the hoodie wraps me in a warm hug, triggering an unexpected spark low in my stomach.

“Can I have some of that again?” I ask.

I nod toward the whiskey in his hand. He arches an eyebrow, unsure if this is a good idea, but then he leans forward and holds the glass out to me. I take it and bring it to my lips.

The glass is warm from his touch. Why does that drink set off alarms in my head?

I sip.

This time, I’m ready for the scorch cascading down my throat and I swallow without flinching. I even enjoy the burning sensation spreading through me.

When I hand it back, our fingertips barely touch. A tingle runs up my arms, tickles my scalp, and shoots all the way to my toes. I pull my hand back a little too quickly, hoping he didn’t notice, hoping he did.

Maybe it’s the firelight, or the whiskey, or the dangerous lack of space between us. Or it’s the hoodie I’m wearing, the way he looked at me when I put it on, the steadiness in his voice when he corrects my stance, and the way our fingers touched over the glass. I shouldn’t want any of it. Yet I do, and I’m not sorry.

USEFUL