There’s a list in his kitchen drawer. Tucked beneath the vintage wine opener, next to the place cards you used that one night you made dinner together. It’s laminated. Your handwriting loopy, sarcastic. “People who’ve hurt me.” You wrote it half-drunk and laughing, like it was nothing. Three names are crossed out in red ink. You never asked how.

Steve never offers an explanation. He just makes you another drink. Or spoons something sweet between your lips with a smile so warm it should feel safe. It doesn’t. Not really. But it does feel good.

He calls you “baby” like it’s a prayer and a promise. Like he’d burn the whole world down if it meant you’d stay in his kitchen a little longer, barefoot and glowing under the soft lights.

“You joke, I laminate,” he says one night, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Nobody gets to touch what’s mine.”

You laugh but part of you knows he means it. And the worst part?

You like that too.