Chapter 106: Not Mad, Just... Worried
Breakfast smelled like toasted bread and coffee—cheap, fast, the kind of morning meal that didn’t require much effort.
She’d fried up eggs the way only she could—perfectly golden at the edges, soft in the middle, with just enough seasoning to make them taste like something out of a restaurant instead of my tiny kitchen. Toast sat on the side, butter melted just right, and somehow she’d even managed to make the coffee smell richer than usual. It was simple food, sure, but when Val cooked, it never felt simple.
She sat across from me at the small table, hair still a little damp from her shower, one knee tucked up onto her chair like she was too comfortable in my apartment to pretend at manners.
Her fork tapped against her plate every now and then as she hummed some tune under her breath, off-key but somehow still sweet. I was trying to eat, but my eyes kept drifting to her face, the way her lashes dipped low when she looked down, the faint shadow of something unspoken clinging to the edges of her smile.
I told myself to leave it. Told myself not to press. But the thought had been clawing at the back of my head since Monday night, refusing to let go. Finally, I set my fork down and leaned back in my chair.
"So," I said, careful, testing. "About you and Lucien..."
Her fork stilled mid-motion. She froze, then lifted her eyes to me slowly, like the words had dragged her out of a place she didn’t want to leave.
I kept my gaze steady. "You guys made up?"
For a second, something flickered across her face—something small, sharp, and raw. Her eyes gave her away before she could school them. Then, just as quickly, she forced the mask back on. She nodded, too casually. "Yeah. We did."
I narrowed my eyes, studying her. I wasn’t buying it. "You’re sure?"
Her grip on her fork tightened, just enough for me to notice. Then she set it down, exhaling through her nose. "Can we... not talk about it?"
Her voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t dismissive. If anything, it was soft—fragile in a way that didn’t match the stubborn tilt of her chin.
I frowned but didn’t push further. Not when her eyes looked like that. I just nodded, picked my fork back up, and went back to my food.
For a while, the only sound was the scrape of cutlery against plates, the occasional clink of a glass. It stretched long enough that I thought maybe that was it, maybe she was going to keep the walls up and I’d just have to deal with it.
But then she spoke again, quieter this time. "It’s not like I don’t wanna tell you."
My head lifted, eyes catching hers.
She shifted in her chair, looking anywhere but at me. "I just... don’t want you to worry."
Her voice trailed off at the end, small, as if the words themselves had taken something out of her.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table. "Val. It’s literally my job to worry about you."
Her eyes flicked up at that, then dropped again. She breathed out slowly, fingers toying with her fork. When she finally spoke, her words came low, hesitant, like admitting them made them too real.
"We didn’t really make up," she said. "Not the way I said."
I stilled.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, still refusing to meet my gaze. "Lucien... he said he’d do anything to keep his spot. Even if it meant making me look bad."
The words sank into me like stones.
My hands curled into fists under the table. "He said that to you?"
Her mouth twisted into a bitter half-smile. "More or less."
"Val—"
She cut me off with a tiny shake of her head. "That’s why I didn’t wanna tell you. Because I knew this would be your reaction."
I bit down on my frustration, but it bubbled anyway, hot and sour. "Of course it’s my reaction. He basically threatened you."
She shrugged like it was nothing, though her eyes betrayed her.
"It’s not like he’d actually hurt me," she said quietly, eyes fixed on her plate. "We just... didn’t really make up. He said things I wish he hadn’t, that’s all. But it’s nothing I can’t handle."
The way she said it—soft, too quick—didn’t convince me. My fork stilled halfway to my mouth.
"Val..." My voice came lower, tighter. "That doesn’t sound like nothing. You know I’d rather worry than sit here guessing."
She finally glanced up, meeting my eyes for all of two seconds before looking away again. "I know. But if I told you every little thing, you’d carry it like it’s yours. And it’s not yours to carry."
I frowned, jaw tense. "I’m your boyfriend. I’m supposed to carry it with you."
Her lips twitched at that, like she wanted to smile but couldn’t quite manage it. Then she exhaled slowly, shoulders dropping. "You really take that title seriously, don’t you?"
"I’m not joking, Val."
"I know." Her voice softened again, this time warmer, almost fond. Then, as if sensing I was about to push more, she tipped her head to the side, forcing a grin. "Guess we’ll have to rewrite the Boyfriend Handbook. Section one: no worrying before breakfast. Section two: extra hugs on demand. Section three..." She leaned forward, stealing a toast off my plate with a quick bite, "...boyfriend shares food without complaints."
I stared at her, the corner of my mouth twitching but never quite making it into a smile. "You always do that."
She swallowed, brow raised. "Do what?"
"Act like everything’s fine. Make a joke, steal my food, change the subject." My tone wasn’t sharp, but it wasn’t playful either.
Her grin faltered just slightly before she put it back in place, like she was determined to hold onto it. "And it usually works."
I didn’t answer that. Not out loud, anyway. Because she wasn’t wrong—it did work, at least on the surface. She knew me too well, knew how to pivot, how to tug me out of whatever storm I was building in my head. But underneath... it lingered.
The way her eyes had flickered when I asked about Lucien. The hesitation in her voice. The fact that she wanted me not to worry, but everything about her told me I should.
I picked at the last bit of my eggs, chewing more out of habit than hunger. She hummed to herself like nothing had happened, like she hadn’t just admitted that things with her brother were still broken.
And maybe that was the part that got me the most—that she thought she had to carry it alone. That she still didn’t trust me enough to set it all down between us.
---
After we cleared the plates and she stacked them neatly in the sink, I drifted to the couch. My phone was in my hand, screen glowing, but I wasn’t really seeing it. Headlines, scores, random posts—none of it stuck. My thumb kept moving, scrolling aimlessly, but my head wasn’t in it.
The quiet that settled after breakfast wasn’t the easy kind. It pressed in at the edges, heavy in a way I couldn’t quite ignore.
I knew she’d felt it too. I wasn’t angry—at least not in the way she probably thought. Just... frustrated. Frustrated because she carried things alone and thought putting on a smile was enough to convince me it didn’t weigh her down.
Across the room, she lingered by the table, biting her finger like she was thinking too hard. Then, softly:
> "Kai."
"Mm," I hummed, eyes still on my phone.
> "Are you mad?"
"No." My voice was flat, clipped, and I didn’t bother looking up.
A beat passed, and then quieter:
> "Please don’t be mad."
The sigh left me before I could stop it. Finally, I lifted my gaze. She was standing there, shoulders tucked in, eyes wide in a way that made her look smaller than I’d ever seen her.
"I’m sorry," she whispered.
And just like that, the weight in my chest shifted, melted into something else entirely. It wasn’t her apology that did it—it was her face. The way her eyes shone, like she hated the thought of letting me down. The kind of look that stripped me bare no matter how hard I tried to keep a wall up.
I didn’t bother with words. Instead, I stretched out an arm.
She moved instantly, like she’d been waiting for that signal all along. The next second she was beside me, curling into the space at my side, her cheek pressing against my chest.
"Thank you," she breathed, almost too soft to hear.
I wrapped my arm around her and let my fingers thread through her hair, slow and steady. She sighed against me, and the sound carved something warm, aching, and stubbornly permanent into me.
Because how could I stay mad? Even when she kept pieces of herself hidden, even when she shouldered things alone, she always found a way to remind me—without even trying—that she wasn’t just mine to protect. I was hers too.
And no matter how much I wished she’d tell me everything, right then, holding her close felt like enough.
---
To be continued...