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My cheeks burn. “That is completely different.”

“It really isn’t.”

“I’m not going to stab you with a fork.”

“You say that now.”

“Oh, my God.” I sag against the pillows. “Fine. Just—just feed me then.” I begrudgingly open my mouth, refusing to make eye contact with him.

He brings the fork closer to my lips, and my mouth begins to water from the delicious smell.

Warm, fluffy eggs melt on my tongue. I chew with exaggerated slowness, staring at the far wall, so I don’t have to see how smug he probably looks. The eggs taste better than anything I’ve had in months, which only makes everything worse; the more I chew, the more I want another bite, and the more I want another bite, the more humiliated I feel for liking it.

He waits until I swallow before offering another forkful. “Good?”

I nod, silent, my face hot.

This is deliberate. He could just set the tray down and let me eat, but instead, he holds each bite out for me, like I’m a toddler at daycare whose hands are too busy smashing Cheerios into the carpet. And he never hurries, never lets the fork clang against my teeth or drool onto my chin. Each time, he brings it to my lips and waits for me to open my mouth.

I try to not open my mouth, but eventually, hunger wins. I give in, and the cycle repeats. Chew. Swallow. Open. Repeat.

After a few more bites, he switches to the toast. He holds it between two fingers and guides the corner toward me. I have to bite from his hand, which makes the heat in my face creep into my chest. My teeth graze his fingers by accident on the first bite, and he murmurs, “Careful,” but he doesn’t pull away.

I try to be careful. I try to keep my lips from brushing his skin, but it’s unavoidable. I feel every tiny scrape of his callus against my mouth.

I want to hate him for it, but there’s something weirdly reassuring about the steadiness of his hands, and the way he seems to be watching to make sure my bites aren’t too big, my chewing not too fast.

The next time he brings the toast, I bite it with a little more force than necessary. He lets me, looking almost amused, then wipes a butter crumb from the corner of my mouth with his thumb.

A tremor zaps me from scalp to toes. I shrink down, pressing my rabbit to my side with my free hand.

“Would you like some fruit now?” he asks, like this is a normal breakfast and not a serial-killer brunch.

I half expect him to start airplane-noising the spoon, but he just offers me the strawberries, one at a time, and then banana slices. The acidity stings my tongue a bit, but the sugar is like a jolt of life. I keep chewing, keep swallowing, hating myself with every bite for not refusing, but hating the idea of losing this warmth even more.

There’s a rhythm now; he alternates between eggs, toast, fruit, and juice. After a few bites, he pauses. “Tylenol,” he says, and offers the two red pills in his palm.

I stare at them. “Why are you being nice?” I blurt out. “You… You kidnapped me.”

He looks at me, his expression unreadable, and ignores my question. “As you keep reminding me.”

Eventually I stop concentrating so hard on the humiliation of being fed and start concentrating on the fact that my stomach doesn’t hurt quite as much anymore.

He doesn’t rush me either, which I appreciate. Mom always gets impatient when I eat too slowly. Wade used to complain that watching me “pick at shit” ruined his appetite.

This man just waits. When I need a few extra seconds to chew, the fork stays still, and when I turn away after half the eggs, he doesn’t force another bite toward me.

When I’m finished, my limbs feel heavier—not drug-heavy, but the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that comes after hours of crying, fighting, and fearing the worst.

The man takes the tray from my lap and sets it on the nightstand. “I saw you managed to get under the blankets.”

I nod.

“I hope everything is comfortable enough.”

I don’t say anything back, but it really is.

He then pulls a small white tube from his pocket. “I brought some ointment.”