010
1120 Words
LENA
“…Yes. I’ve moved on. I’m done. Everything is concluded. I found someone else…”
I wasn’t supposed to hear that. I froze mid-step, my purse sliding off my hands and dropping to the floor with a muted thud. My whole body jolted at the sound, but I didn’t move to pick it up. My hand hovered in the air instead, suspended like my breath, listening even though I knew I shouldn’t.
Ella. That was the name I’d heard earlier. Whoever she was, he said her name differently.
I bent slowly, finally retrieving the purse, careful not to let it clatter again. I pressed back into the shades of the hall and tiptoed towards my room before the floorboards betrayed me.
The door closed behind me with the gentlest click. I leaned my back against it, the door cool through the thin cotton of my shirt. My hands gripped the strap of the purse until it creased.
I hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but now the words were inside me, moving around where I couldn’t push them out. Who was she? Why did he sound so absolute, so certain, like he’d cut ties without thinking?
I sat on the edge of the bed, the blanket twisted around my lap.
I told myself I just needed to sleep, but my mind wouldn’t unclench. I kept seeing his face as I imagined it—phone to his ear, calm and unreadable.
My notebook.
That was my excuse. I remembered leaving it on his desk earlier when I’d been flipping through schedules. Tomorrow I’d need it. It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. If I went to get it now, it would be practical, harmless. That was what I told myself as I stood and drew the blanket tighter around my shoulders like armor.
His room door was open just enough to see him. He sat at the desk, the lamplight carving following into the angles of his sharp jaw. Phone still in hand, his attention narrowed to whoever was speaking on the other end.
I hovered, my throat dry, before finally forcing sound out. “Mark… um… my notebook. I left it.”
His eyes lifted slowly. They didn’t rush. They didn’t widen in surprise. They just moved over me, calmly, like he’d been expecting I’d find a reason to be there.
He didn’t answer right away. He let the silence sit. His stare roamed me once, steady and unbothered, before landing back on my face.
Heat crawled into my cheeks. I cleared my throat, forcing myself to say it again. “Please. I just need it.”
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, almost invisible, like a secret he wasn’t sharing. His voice was quiet when it came, low and controlled. “Go on.”
That was it. Permission. Nothing else.
I stepped forward, plucked the notebook from the desk, clutching it tighter than necessary, then turned quickly before my skin gave away how warm it felt under his stare.
Back in my room, I dropped the notebook onto the bed. My stomach twisted—not from embarrassment now, but from something sharper, something gnawing lower. Hunger. Real, physical hunger.
I realized I hadn’t eaten all day. Not really. Just coffee, then a handful of crackers. No wonder my body droned restless, no wonder I couldn’t sleep. I needed something solid. Something warm. Something I could focus on instead of the sound of his voice saying I’ve moved on.
So I went to the kitchen.
I wrapped the blanket tighter, clinging to its warmth as I rummaged through cupboards. Pasta. Sauce. That was enough. A bowl of spaghetti at midnight wasn’t ideal, but I wasn’t picky.
I filled the pot, set it on the stove, and waited for the water to heat. The quiet noise of the burner filled the space, soft and steady, and for a moment I let myself relax. Cooking was mechanical—something to do with my hands while my thoughts worked out.
I reached up for the salt, tucked high on the shelf above the counter. My fingertips grazed the edge but slipped back. I rose on my toes, stretching, my body lengthened as much as it could. Still too far. My arm ached with the reach.
“Come on,” I muttered under my breath, straining again.
That was when it happened.
A hand slid around my waist from behind. Firm. Warm.
I froze, my breath catching sharp in my throat.
He pulled me back just enough to steady me against him. My body went rigid, heart tripping over itself.
“What—what are you doing?” I whispered, voice too thin, breaking at the edges.
His chest pressed lightly into my back, steady heat seeping through the blanket. His mouth didn’t touch me, but his words brushed the shell of my ear anyway. “Helping.”
That was all.
I swallowed hard. My hands stayed raised toward the shelf, but the salt was forgotten. His palm at my waist wasn’t rough, wasn’t forcing, but it grounded me in place.
His hand moved. Just a glide upward, tracing the side of my ribcage, stopping under my arm. The smallest motion, but it set my whole body alive.
I gripped the counter’s edge hard, knuckles white. My face burned hot, blood pounding too fast.
“Is this… what you call helping?” I managed, though the words shook, small and unsteady.
He chuckled low, the sound vibrating against my back. “You asked for the salt.”
I turned my head slightly, just enough to catch his profile out of the corner of my eye. The smirk was there—subtle, unbothered. He knew exactly what he was doing.
“I can.. I can help myself ou-,” I whispered.
“Shh” he let out almost immediately.
His arm stretched above mine, fingers brushing against my hand as he reached. The salt jar slipped effortlessly into his grip. He didn’t hand it to me right away. Instead, he stayed close, pressing into the space until my breath stuttered.
Finally, he set the jar down on the counter in front of me. His body stayed behind mine for a second longer, before stepping back.
The sudden absence was dizzying.
I grabbed the salt, clutching it like proof that I hadn’t imagined him pressed against me.
I stirred the pot mechanically, trying to act as though nothing had happened, though every nerve in me droned sharp and alive.
And then the front door clicked open.
The sound cut through the house, unmistakable.
We both froze. No one was supposed to be home.
Right?
His voice dropped, low and controlled.
“Stay here.”
- Writer
