Well Beyond

35

The TV flickers in front of me, a blur of colors and sounds that I'm barely processing. I'm not even sure what's on—some sitcom, maybe, or a reality show I'd normally never watch. My eyes are fixed on the screen, but my mind is miles away, drifting back to the conversation with Jasper, to the tension that's been building inside me all day. I try to focus, but it's like swimming upstream, the current of my thoughts too strong to resist.

The soft click of the door opening snaps me out of my daze. I sit up a little straighter, my heart picking up speed as Erik walks in. He's dressed in a dark button-down shirt, the rich color bringing out the depth of his eyes. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing the intricate tattoos that snake down his forearms, and he's wearing slacks that fit him perfectly, accentuating the strength in his legs. He looks every bit the commanding Alpha, but there's something about the way he looks at me, something softer that makes my heart flutter.

"Hey," he greets, his voice low and warm as he closes the door behind him. His gaze settles on me, sitting curled up on the couch, and a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "How was your day?"

"It was... fine," I reply, though my voice lacks the conviction. I give him a small smile in return, hoping it hides the turmoil churning inside me.

He arches a brow, clearly sensing something is off, but he doesn't push. Instead, he crosses the room in a few long strides, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of my head. The gesture is so simple, so tender, that it momentarily eases the tightness in my chest.

"I'm going to start dinner," he says softly, his breath warm against my skin before he straightens up and heads toward the kitchen.

I watch him go, the way his broad shoulders move as he walks away, the roll of his sleeves giving me a glimpse of the muscles in his arms. He's so effortlessly captivating, so sure of himself, and yet, I can't shake the unease that's been gnawing at me all day.

The sound of pans clattering in the kitchen pulls me from my thoughts. I stand up, smoothing down the front of my shirt before padding softly into the kitchen. Erik is already at work, moving with practiced ease as he chops vegetables and seasons whatever he's cooking. There's something almost hypnotic about the way he moves, so precise and controlled, like he's channeling all his focus into the task at hand.

"You don't have to do that," I say quietly, leaning against the doorway. "I could've helped."

He glances up at me, a smile tugging at his lips. "I like cooking for you," he replies simply, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

I return his smile, though it feels a bit forced. The tension between us is palpable, the unspoken words hanging in the air like a storm cloud. But Erik doesn't push, doesn't pry. He just continues cooking, giving me the space I seem to need.

A little while later, he sets the table, the scent of roasted chicken and herbs filling the air. The table is set with care—plates, silverware, a napkin folded neatly on each lap, and a glass of water at my place. It's simple, but it feels intimate, like a small gesture of normalcy in the midst of all the chaos.

"Dinner's ready," he announces, pulling out a chair for me. I sit down, murmuring a quiet thanks as he takes his seat across from me.

We begin eating, but I can't seem to focus on the food. It looks delicious, and I know Erik put effort into it, but my appetite is gone. I pick at the chicken on my plate, moving it around with my fork more than I actually eat. My napkin sits neatly in my lap, untouched, as I struggle to pull myself out of the fog that's settled over me. Erik watches me carefully, his brows knitting together in concern.

"Not hungry?" he asks gently, setting his fork down. I force myself to take another bite, though it feels like a chore. 

"It's really good," I say, and I mean it, but my voice is distant, detached. He doesn't press me, but I can see the worry in his eyes.