I made coffee with shaking hands, then stared at the kitchen full of food I was supposed to eat. The eggs in the fridge. The bread on the counter. The fruit bowl he'd filled yesterday with apples and bananas and grapes because "you need vitamins, Cleo."

My stomach was too knotted to even think about food. Instead, I nursed my coffee and tried to focus on job applications. But every resume I sent felt pointless when my mind kept circling back to consequences and promises and the way he'd called me little girl like it was my name.

By eleven-thirty, a different kind of defiance was building in my chest. He'd left me here with rules and expectations, trusting me to follow them. Trusting me to take care of myself in his absence.

What if I didn't?

The thought took root like a weed, growing until I couldn't ignore it. Last night had been about bedtime, about structure and rest. But there were other rules. Other boundaries to test. Other ways to prove that I was too much trouble to bother with.

When noon rolled around, I stared at the kitchen and made a choice.

No lunch.

My phone rang at 12:15, right on schedule. His name on the screen made my heart race, but I forced my voice steady when I answered.

"Hey." Casual. Normal. Like I wasn't deliberately disobeying again.

"Hey, baby." His voice was warm over the phone, that particular tone he used when he was checking on me. "How's your morning?"

"Fine. Sent out more applications." Truth mixed with lies, the best kind of deception.

"Good. You eat lunch yet?"

The question I'd been waiting for. "Not hungry. I had a big breakfast."

The lie slipped out smooth as silk, and I held my breath waiting to see if he'd catch it. There was a pause on his end, the sound of movement and muffled voices.

"What'd you have?" Still casual, but I heard something underneath. A testing of his own.

"Toast." The word came too fast. "With peanut butter."

Another pause. Longer this time. When he spoke again, his voice had shifted subtly. "You sure about that?"

My mouth went dry. He knew. Somehow, he always knew. But I'd already committed to the lie. "Yeah. Why?"

"No reason." But there was definitely a reason. "I'll be home around six. Make sure you eat something this afternoon, okay? Even if it's just a snack."

"Okay." Another lie. They were piling up now, each one adding weight to whatever was coming.

"Cleo." My name in his mouth was a warning. "I mean it. Your body needs fuel."

"I know." I injected false brightness into my voice. "I'll grab something in a bit."

We hung up with the usual pleasantries, but I could feel the weight of his suspicion through the phone. He knew something was off. The only question was what he'd do about it.

By 3 PM, hunger was gnawing at my stomach like an angry animal. Coffee on an empty stomach had been a mistake—I felt shaky and hollow, skin too tight for my bones. But the idea of eating now felt like giving in. Like admitting defeat before the battle was even fought.

By 3:30, I was lying on the couch clutching Mr. Friendly, trying to convince myself this was smart.

That pushing boundaries when I was already in trouble for last night was exactly the kind of self-destructive behavior he should see.

Better to show him now what a mess I was than let him find out later when it would hurt more.

The front door opened at 4 PM.

Two hours early.

I shot upright, Mr. Friendly tumbling to the floor as Dex walked in looking like controlled thunder. His eyes found me immediately, took in my pale face and shaking hands and the guilty way I couldn't quite meet his gaze.

"Interesting thing," he said, voice dangerously mild as he set his keys on the counter. "I stopped by the house before heading out this morning. Wanted to make sure you had breakfast before I left."

My stomach dropped to somewhere around my knees.

"Kitchen was exactly like I left it last night." He moved closer, each step deliberate. "No dishes in the sink. No crumbs on the counter. Nothing to suggest anyone had eaten toast with peanut butter."

"I cleaned up," I tried weakly.

"Did you?" He stopped directly in front of me, looking down with those too-knowing eyes. "Show me the peanut butter jar then. Should have fresh marks from a knife, right?"

I couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Could only sit there while he systematically destroyed every lie I'd built.

"Did you eat lunch?" Direct question, no room for evasion.

"No." The word came out small and defeated.

"Breakfast?"

I shook my head, unable to form words around the shame crawling up my throat.

"So you lied to me." Not a question. "Deliberately. Multiple times. After staying up past bedtime last night."

"I wasn't hungry," I whispered, last defense of the guilty.

"Bullshit." The word cracked like a whip. "You're testing. Pushing to see what happens when you break multiple rules. Well, congratulations, little girl. You're about to find out."

My whole body went hot and cold at once. This was it. The consequences I'd been begging for without words. The proof that he wouldn't just walk away when I made myself difficult.

"Go to the bedroom," he said, voice dropping to that authority register that bypassed my brain and went straight to my spine. "Sit on the bed and think about why you're in trouble. I'll be there in a minute."

"Dex—"

"Now, Cleo."

The command brooked no argument. I stood on shaky legs, grabbing Mr. Friendly from the floor because I needed something to hold. The walk down the hallway felt endless, each step heavier than the last.

The bedroom was exactly as I'd left it this morning—bed hastily made, water glass still on the nightstand. I perched on the edge of the mattress, clutching my bear tight enough to hurt.

This was what I'd wanted. What I'd pushed for. So why did my chest feel like it might cave in? Why did the wait feel like standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing the fall was coming but not knowing how far down the bottom was?

Through the door, I could hear him moving around. The fridge opening. Water running. Deliberate sounds that said he was taking his time. Making me wait. Making me think about what I'd done and what was coming.

When the door finally opened, my heart was hammering so hard I was sure he could hear it. He stood in the doorway with a drink and a sandwich, looking calm and controlled and absolutely immovable.

“Eat. Drink.”

He passed them to me and I gratefully tore in. It took me all of about a minute to wolf it down.

"Ready to talk about consequences?" he asked quietly.

All I could do was nod.

He sat beside me on the bed, and the mattress dipped with his weight, creating a slope I had to fight not to roll into. Close enough that I could feel his warmth. Far enough that I'd have to deliberately move to touch him. The distance felt calculated, intentional, like everything else about him.

"Tell me why you're testing boundaries," he said quietly. Not angry. Just steady and sure, like he had all the time in the world to wait for my answer.

I clutched Mr. Friendly tighter, his worn fur soft against my fingers. "I don't know."

"I think you might." No judgment in it. Just calm certainty. "You're one of the most self-aware people I've met. You know exactly why you stayed up until 2 AM. Why you skipped meals and lied about it. So tell me."

The words built behind my teeth, sharp-edged and desperate. But speaking them felt like handing over the last piece of armor I had left. Once he knew how broken I really was, how needy, he'd realize I was too much work. Just like everyone else had.

"Cleo." My name in his mouth was gentle but firm. "I can't help if you won't talk to me."

"I need to know you won't leave." The words exploded out of me, too loud in the quiet room.

"Everyone leaves when I'm difficult. When I'm too much trouble.

When I cost too much or need too much or—" My voice cracked.

"I need to know that when you say consequences, you mean it.

That you won't just walk away when I'm messy. "

"Look at me."

I couldn't. Could only stare at Mr. Friendly's button eyes while shame crawled over my skin like ants.

"Cleo. Eyes up here."

The command in his voice made it impossible to disobey. I lifted my gaze to find him watching me with something fierce and protective in his expression.

"I don't leave," he said simply. "Not when things get hard. Not when you're struggling. Not when you need structure and push against it. That's not who I am."

"Everyone says that." The words tasted bitter. "My dad probably said that once."

"I'm not your father." Each word came out sharp and precise.

"I'm not going to make promises about forever—that's not fair to either of us.

But I promise you this: as long as you're under my protection, I won't abandon you for being human.

For having needs. For testing to make sure the boundaries are real. "

Tears burned my eyes, but I blinked them back. "I need consequences. Real ones. I need to know that messing up doesn't mean you'll leave, it just means . . ."

"It means you get corrected and we move forward," he finished. "You get to let go of the guilt and start fresh."

"Yes." The word came out desperate. "Please. I can't carry it anymore. The weight of every mistake, every time I'm not perfect—"

"You're not supposed to be perfect." His hand found my face, thumb brushing away a tear I hadn't realized had fallen. "All you need to do is to make mistakes and learn from them. And you have someone who cares for you. Someone who wants to support you."

"Is that what you are?" My voice came out whisper-soft. "Someone who cares?"

Something shifted in his expression, heat and tenderness mixed together. "Yeah, baby. I care. More than I probably should. Which is why we're going to deal with this right now, before it spirals bigger."

My stomach clenched with nervous anticipation. "How?"