I didn’t move immediately. My hand hovered over the stove, pretending to consider the temperature. Every second was precious. Every hesitation was a test of control.

I finally warmed the soup, letting the steam curl lazily around my face. I breathed slowly, counting each inhale and exhale, grounding myself in the ordinary—water boiling, spoon stirring, the soft clatter of the ladle against ceramic.

He stayed close, watching, almost hovering. I could sense the careful calculation behind his calm. The way he measured every syllable, every gesture.

It was familiar, in a way that made my stomach turn—like seeing a stranger in a mirror, someone who had learned all my habits and planned around them.

“You’re quiet today,” he said, trying again. “Usually you’d chatter while I’m sick. Makes the time pass.”

I smiled faintly. “Not feeling chatty,” I replied, letting the words land softly.

He tilted his head slightly, suspicious, but didn’t push. Not yet. I wasn’t ready for confrontation, and he knew it. He never acted before I did.

I carried the soup to the couch, setting it carefully on the side table. Ethan pretended to stretch and cough weakly, curling under a blanket.

I watched him closely, memorizing every gesture, every pause, every fraction of insincerity. It was all too precise. Too rehearsed.

I sat across from him, pretending to read a message on my phone, keeping the screen angled away from him. The bank notification buzzed again, persistent. My pulse quickened. Whoever had access to my accounts had more information than I had imagined. And they were moving on it. Fast.

I forced myself to act normal, casually sipping the water I had poured. My eyes flicked up, catching his gaze for the briefest second before darting back to the phone.

“Want some soup?” I asked lightly, offering him the ladle.

“Yes,” he said, too quickly, almost eagerly, and I felt a shiver run down my spine.

I handed him the ladle, watching him pretend to struggle with the movement. He took it, careful not to spill, careful to maintain the illusion. I wanted to throw the entire thing across the room, expose him, confront the truth, but I didn’t. Not yet.

Instead, I sat quietly, forcing each breath to be measured, each movement to be ordinary. Every second I delayed gave me more information. Every pause allowed me to observe, catalog, and anticipate.