The microwave hums, its beep cutting through the silence. Rick moves around the kitchen with deliberate fluidity, placing the reheated pasta on the counter as though it were art. His motions slow, methodical, savoring the moment—the conversation he knows is inevitable.

You sit at the counter, tracing the cold surface of your phone, warm from the call. Your parents’ words linger— "Come home. Please. We’re worried." Their plea clings to you, but so does the unsettling comfort of this house.

Rick continues eating, the clink of his fork punctuating the stillness. His silence presses against you like an unspoken demand.

"You’re quiet," he says, his voice gentle but calculating.

You hesitate. Finally, you reveal that you’ve spoken with your parents. Your voice barely a whisper.

Rick’s fork pauses, his eyes flicking to you, sharp. He sets the utensil down, never breaking eye contact. "And?" His tone demands, not asks.

Carefully explaining to him that they’d told you they want you to go back to New York and that they’re worried — yet you say the last thing in a murmur.

Rick’s gaze darkens, lips tight. The silence is heavy, thick with something unsaid. He speaks darkly. "Right. Because they think I’ve been keeping you here."

You remain silent, knowing what he implies. His words hang in the air.

"And what else?" he asks, voice softening slightly.

You confess that they told you that they’d ‘missed you’ and they ‘think you should go back home’.

Rick exhales, lips curling into a sardonic smile. "How quaint." He leans back. "What else? That you should return to make their lives easier?"

The mocking tone cuts, but you don’t react.

Rick leans in, his voice low. "I’ve never stopped you from leaving. Not once." His gaze is unyielding. "Why go back? Don’t you deserve more than that?"

Silence presses in. His gaze doesn’t leave yours.

"I love you," he says, voice sincere but carrying an edge. "You know that, don’t you?"