Pyro

IX

Sunny

Breakfast aromas flood the diner - eggs, bacon, coffee. Waitresses glide on roller skates through controlled chaos as people escape the Los Angeles heat for food and shakes.

A waitress spots us, pink uniform and white apron pristine as she rolls over. "Welcome to Amelia's Diner! Table or pickup?"

"Table," he pulls me closer, his arm a steel band around my waist. Always needing to claim, to control. Yet his voice remains honey-sweet for the waitress. "Something available?"

Her smile brightens as she looks between us. "Sure thing, sweet pea! Follow me." She leads us to a window seat, sunlight streaming in. "Be right back, lovebirds." Two menus hit the table before she wheels away.

I slide into the booth across from him - always across, never beside. He's immaculate in his dress shirt, buttons undone just so, pressed pants perfectly. A stark contrast to my dishevelled state. But then, that's how he prefers it - him put together, me looking like I've weathered a storm.

Because I have. His storms.

The heat demands light clothing, but I'm covered head to toe - black sweats, long-sleeved yellow top, grey Converse. Hiding. Always hiding. My fingers work at my cuticle, focus fixed downward until his hand appears on the table, demanding mine.

His grip starts gentle, then tightens when I meet his eyes - a vice closing around my fingers until a whimper escapes. "Thought you said you put makeup on?"

"I- I did." The words barely escape before his grip becomes crushing.

"Not enough. I can still see the black eye. The split lip." His free hand reaches for my face. I squeeze my eyes shut, but he just moves my hair, arranging it to hide the evidence. "Cover it better next time. Won't tell you again."

A weak 'yes' and nod is all I can manage. When he releases my hand, I pull it back quickly, gaze dropping to where his fingertip bruises are already forming. New marks to hide tomorrow. Blue fingerprints joining the collection climbing my arm beneath my sleeves.

The waitress returns, chippers. "Drinks?"

His smile appears - that smile that once lit up my world, now a warning sign. Amazing how the same expression made me fall in love now fills me with dread. "Two chocolate milkshakes, please." The switch is instant - from violence to charm in a heartbeat. His greatest weapon.

"And to eat?" Her gaze bounces between us, likely confused by my fixed attention on him, my refusal to acknowledge her existence.

Just as he's trained me.

"Feeling alright, love?" His hand lands heavy on my shoulder. I flinch, eyes squeezing shut - a mistake. His foot connects under the table, a sharp reminder. One look conveys his command: 'behave'. His head tilts towards the waitress.

The message is clear: Perform.

I force my gaze up. My hair shifts, revealing what I'm meant to hide. The waitress's face drains of colour as she catalogues the damage - black eye, split lip. Her eyes dart between us, connecting dots I pray she won't act on.

"Um... yes, I'm doing just fine." My voice betrays me, wavering. Alone, he'd punish such weakness.

"Two specials," He cuts in smoothly, handing over the menus. His eyes trace the waitress's figure - young, blonde, beautiful. The kind of woman I'd admire too, if looking at anyone else wasn't a punishable offence.