Chapter 172
Elena's POV
I moved to clear it away. "Let me put this in the fridge—"
"I haven't eaten dinner yet." His voice cut through my movement, stopping me mid-reach.
I turned back to him, surprised. "You haven't?"
"No." He finally released my wrist, but only to take the plate from my hands and set it back on the table. "I'm going to eat it."
"But it's already cold—"
"I don't care."
When he sat down at the table, I couldn't help but hover nearby, my hands twisting in the fabric of my clothes. I watched his every movement as he picked up the fork, wound the pasta around it, and brought it to his mouth.
The silence stretched. I held my breath.
He chewed slowly, his expression unreadable. Then he swallowed and reached for his water glass.
"It's terrible, isn't it?" The words tumbled out before I could stop them. "I'm sorry, I should have—"
"It's very good."
I blinked. "What?"
"It's very good," he repeated, his voice flat but certain. He took another bite, as if to prove his point. "Better than I expected."
Something warm bloomed in my chest, pushing back the cold anxiety that had been building there.
I found myself smiling too, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly. "My mom didn't think I could do it. She said I'd probably burn the kitchen down." I pulled out the chair across from him and sat down, leaning forward with my elbows on the table. "But I wanted to make something special. For you. To celebrate."
He paused mid-bite, his eyes meeting mine across the table. Something flickered in his expression—something deeper that I couldn't quite name.
"I also had a job interview today," I continued, filling the silence because I could no longer bear its weight. "For a translation position. They had me do a written test. I think it went okay. Not great, but okay."
"Experience matters more than test scores." He set down his fork, his gaze steady on me. "If it doesn't work out this time, there will be other opportunities."
The gentleness in his voice caught me off guard. It was such a stark contrast to the cold distance from earlier that I felt my throat tighten.
"Thank you," I whispered.
He didn't respond, just picked up his fork again and continued eating. But the silence felt different now. Less hostile. More like the comfortable quiet we used to share before everything got complicated.
When he finished, he stood and gathered his plate. I immediately jumped up. "I'll wash the dishes. You should rest—"
"Your hand is injured." He was already moving toward the sink.
"I have gloves." I hurried after him, trying to block his path. "Really, you just got back from Aetheria. You must be exhausted. Let me—"
But he was already at the sink, already turning on the water. His movements were efficient, methodical. Like he'd done this a thousand times before.
I stood there watching him wash the dishes. The domesticity of it all felt surreal. Wrong, somehow. He was supposed to be the one being taken care of, not the other way around.
"Caleb—"
"I told you," he said without turning around, "your hand is injured. You shouldn't be doing this."
"It's just a small cut."
"It's still injured." His voice was quiet but firm. Final.
So I stayed where I was, leaning against the counter, watching the strong line of his shoulders as he worked. The way his hands moved with surprising gentleness as he cleaned each dish. The tension that still lingered in the set of his jaw.
Something was wrong. I could feel it in the air between us, in the careful way he was avoiding looking at me directly. But I didn't know how to ask.
---
Later, I lay in the guest room bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep.
My mind was full of things I wanted to say to him. I felt like he'd been too cold tonight. We hadn't seen each other for a week, and when he came back, there was no hug, no kiss, not even extra eye contact.
Doesn't he miss me at all? I bit my lip, feeling a hint of grievance in my eyes.
The person I liked was clearly in the next room, but I felt lonelier than when I was alone.
Finally, I sat up in bed. I had to go find him.
I tiptoed to the master bedroom door and gently pushed it open. It wasn't locked.
I walked barefoot to the bedside in the dark, able to make out only Caleb's vague outline.
I wanted to be with him. I'd never liked someone this much before. Even with Damon, I'd never felt this kind of strong dependence.
"Are you sleepwalking?" Caleb's low voice suddenly sounded in the darkness.
I jumped, my heart racing instantly.
---
Caleb pressed the bedside lamp. Warm yellow light filled the room.
He looked at me standing barefoot by the bed, his brow furrowing slightly. "Don't you feel cold?" His voice held helpless indulgence.
I curled my toes. The floor was indeed cold, but that wasn't what I cared about.
Caleb lifted the covers, gesturing for me to get in.
I climbed into bed and burrowed lightly into his arms, seeking warmth.
After a moment of silence, Caleb spoke in a low voice: "Do you have something you want to say to me?"
I was quiet for a moment, then suddenly asked back: "Don't you have something to say to me? I feel like you have something on your mind."
His body stiffened slightly. He didn't answer.
"I know you like to keep a lot of things bottled up inside..." My voice gradually took on a hint of choking. "When you're cold to me, I feel terrible."
I took a deep breath, as if gathering courage: "We have so much time ahead of us... If we can't communicate properly, there will be many more problems."
My words carried grievance and unease. I was trying in my own way to break through the barrier between us.
Caleb's Adam's apple rolled lightly. He was silent for a long time, so long that I thought he wouldn't speak again.
Finally, he opened his mouth, his voice low and hoarse: "Since you've already decided to marry me, why did you go to meet Damon?"