2. Lilith
CHAPTER TWO
“ Y ou’re late.”
“You said nine.”
“Nope. Definitely said eight-thirty. But don’t worry about it.” He stepped back, holding the door wider. “Come on in.”
I hesitated for a second. Something about the way he said it made my skin crawl. But I stepped inside anyway. I always did.
Clark reached for my coat before I could take it off myself, sliding it down my arms, brushing his fingers over my shoulders, lingering at the curve of my neck.
“Missed you,” he murmured, lips pressing against my skin.
I hummed into his touch and forced a smile, letting my gaze drift over the apartment.
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 chain of 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, just up . 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.”
“You’re always doing this,” he snapped. “Acting like everything’s fine until you decide it’s not, and suddenly I’m the bad guy.”
I tried to pull away, but his hand only cinched tighter.
“You’re not fucking going anywhere.”
His fingers clamp hard around my leg.
I twist, try to pull away, but his grip only tightens.
“You always have to push, don’t you?” His breath reeks of cigarettes, hot against my ear.
My nails scrape the door frame—inches away. One good pull and I could—
His grip tightens again.
“You’re not leaving.”
“Clark, please,” I choked out, breath hitching now. “Please, let go of me.”
For a second, I thought he wouldn’t. He held tight, crushing me, like he needed me to really hurt before he’d let me go.
And then, he dropped his hand. Like I wasn’t even worth the effort anymore.
I sat back, rubbing my thigh. My skin throbbed beneath my palm, and I knew I’d find bruises later. Ugly, splotchy marks that would bloom overnight.
“I don’t understand why you always get like this when you’re tired,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair.
“I… I really don’t know,” I said quietly, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say. Because I wanted— needed —this to be over.
He sighed heavily, like I’d added to his long list of burdens.
“It’s exhausting,” he huffed. “You know that? You’re exhausting sometimes.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
Because that’s what I was supposed to say. Because it was easier that way.
And honestly? Maybe he was right.
I was exhausting sometimes. I knew that. I’d been hearing it since I was a kid. Too loud, too emotional, too sensitive, too much. It had stuck like gum to my ribs, this constant reminder that I was supposed to make myself smaller, quieter, easier to manage.
I was thirty-one years old now. A grown woman who survived on caffeine, sarcasm, and whatever cocktail of antipsychotics my doctor decided to shove down my throat.
I knew I wasn’t easy to deal with. I knew I wasn’t some calm, soft-spoken, effortlessly cool person that people gravitated toward.
I wasn’t light-hearted or laid-back or chill in that way that made people want to be around me .
I was… work .
And maybe Clark was tired of that. Maybe I couldn’t blame him.
I rubbed at the dull ache in my thigh, feeling the heat of it under my palm.
But maybe that was my fault too. Maybe if I’d just kept my mouth shut, just smiled more, just been less —maybe none of this would’ve happened.
I swallowed hard, trying to breathe around the tightness building in my chest.
“You’re exhausting.”
I couldn’t even argue with him. Because sometimes? Sometimes I felt exhausting to myself too.
His hand slid over mine. Soft this time. Warm. Like nothing had happened.
“Hey.” His voice was low now, softer, almost gentle. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… I… I get frustrated sometimes, you know?”
I didn’t say anything.
He shifted closer, his hand still resting on mine.
“It’s just… you’re always so worn out lately. And I worry, okay?” His fingers curled gently around my wrist. “I see you pushing yourself too hard, and then when I try to talk to you about it, you shut me out.”
“I’m not—” I started, but he cut me off with a tired smile, like I’d proven his point.
“You do,” he said quietly. “And I know you don’t mean to. I know you’ve been… dealing with a lot. But when you do that—when you pull away—it makes me feel like I can’t reach you.”
His fingers slid down to my thigh, right over the bruising pressure he’d left behind. He gave it a soft squeeze. Not enough to hurt this time, but enough to remind me it was still there. “And I don’t know what to do when you won’t let me in.”
I swallowed hard, fighting the lump in my throat.
“Angel… I need you to tell me when you’re feeling like that,” he said. “I need to know what’s going on in your head.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmured. I didn’t even know why I said it. The words slipped out like they were automatic. Like I was apologising for being tired. For being… me.
“I know,” he said, his smile widening as his hand slid higher, his fingers tracing slow circles on my skin. “I know you’re trying, angel.”
His hand moved to my face then, thumb brushing over my cheek—so soft, so careful, like he hadn’t left his fingerprints on my skin moments ago.
“You’re all mine, Lilith,” he murmured, voice soft and warm. “I just need you to stick with me, okay?”
Then he kissed me. Soft at first, like he was giving me the chance to pull away. I should’ve. I wanted to. But I didn’t. Instead, I leaned into the warmth of his lips, the familiar weight of his hand cupping my face .
There he is , I thought. The version of him I kept waiting for—the soft one, the sweet one, the one who made me feel like maybe I wasn’t so hard to love after all.
I kissed him back harder, and he hummed low in his throat like I’d done something right. Like I was back on track, behaving the way I was supposed to.
“That’s better, huh?” he murmured against my mouth.
And for a second—a split second—I let myself believe it was.
Because I wanted to. Because it was easier that way.