IRIS

The knock on the door is soft. Too soft. Like he’s trying not to wake something that’s already wide awake inside me.

I don’t answer. I don’t have the strength. Not for him. Not for anyone.

But the door opens anyway.

Darian steps in, quiet, cautious, holding a tray in his hands. A bowl of soup. Bread on the side. A glass of water with lemon. All of it steaming, fresh. Thoughtful.

Infuriating.

I sit up straighter in bed, my spine stiff with resistance. I don’t even look at the tray. I look at him.

“I said I didn’t want to see you.”

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t...