Page 4 of Ruin Me Gently

Mirrors. Everywhere.

On the walls, above the mantel, propped in corners like he couldn’t stand to go five minutes without catching his own reflection.

“I was gonna plate up,” he said from the kitchen.

I turned just in time to see him pouring wine into two glasses.

“It’s probably cold by now,” he added. “But do you still want some?”

“Yeah,” I said, nodding.

He handed me a glass, fingertips brushing mine. “Good. I like it when you stay.” Then he smiled and tapped his glass to mine. “To us.”

Between sips of wine and forced small talk, we ended up at the table. Clark was halfway through his plate, fork scraping rhythmically, voice filling the silence, while I just moved my food around. Pushing it from one side of the plate to the other, cutting bites smaller than I’d ever actually eat.

I wasn’t really listening. Not properly. His voice had become this low, droning buzz—something about a guy at work who didn’t ‘respect the chainof command’ or whatever. Clark loved that phrase.The chain of command. Like he thought his job as an up-and-coming news anchor was the fucking military.

His fork scraped loudly against the plate. “You’re not eating,” he said, voice sharp like a glass slipping under my skin.

My fork froze mid-push. “I’m eating,” I lied.

“Yeah?” He gestured to my barely touched plate. “Doesn’t look like it.”

Shit.

I forced my lips into something that vaguely resembled a smile, swallowing down the tightness clawing its way up my throat. “I’m just… watching my figure, you know?”

“Damn,” he said, leaning back in his chair, eyes flicking from my plate, to my body, to my face. “You’re a good listener, aren’t you?”

My stomach knotted so tight it hurt.

His gaze lingered on me for a second too long—like he was waiting for me to say something else, to thank him maybe, for suggesting a diet, for fixing me. But instead, he drained the rest of his glass and stood, grabbing my plate on his way to the kitchen.

“I’ll clear this up,” he said. “Go sit down. I’ll put something on.”

I set my glass down and moved to the couch, curling into the corner while Clark busied himself in the kitchen. Plates clinked and water ran. I should’ve been grateful. Should’ve been relieved that the tension had passed, that we were slipping back into something easier. But instead, I just felt tired. Like I’d spent the whole evening walking some invisible tightrope and still wasn’t sure if I was about to fall.

A few minutes later, he flopped down beside me with a fresh glass of wine in one hand, and the TV remote in the other. A movie flickered dimly across the screen, some action sequence I really wasn’t interested in. His arm found its way around my shoulders, fingers idly stroking my arm. He’d been talking for a while now. Nothing serious, just rambling about segments, or his gym routine, or how he was thinking about asking for a new assistant.

My head was fuzzy from the wine, my eyelids heavy. I was trying to listen, but my mind kept drifting out of focus.

“You’re not even paying attention,” he muttered.

“I am,” I said, too quickly. “You were saying—”

“No, you weren’t,” he cut in, fingers flexing against my shoulder. “You do this all the time. You tune me out like I’m not even here.”

“That’s not fair.” I sat up a little straighter, twisting to face him. “I’m just tired, Clark.”

“Right.” He let out a sharp breath through his nose. “You’re always tired.”

I shifted to get up. Not dramatically, not storming off, justup. Away from whatever this was turning into. But before I could move, his hand shot out and grabbed me, fingers locking hard around my thigh.

“No,” he said, voice low and sharp. “You’re not walking out when we’re still talking.”

His grip crushed down on the softest part of my leg, knuckles pressing deep into muscle like he wanted to leave fingerprints behind. A deep, dull ache spread up my hip and down toward my knee. It hurt.

“Clark,” I muttered, forcing calm into my voice. “Let go.”

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