Except it's not bread.

"Enjoy," she says brightly. "It's sprouted, fermented, grain-free—full of plant protein."

I don't understand a single word she just said. But I am hungry. I reach for a piece, my stomach growling in anticipation. And that's when Evan's hand clamps over mine, his grip firm and cold.

"You don't need that," he says, calm, firm, dismissive.

I stare at him, my hand frozen beneath his. "Evan, it's not even bread. You heard the waitress. It's, like... sprouted beans or something."

He sighs, shaking his head like I'm a child who doesn't understand basic concepts. "Izzy. No. What about your goals?"

I blink.

Then I blink again.

I don't know what happens, but a dam breaks inside me. A rush of frustration that's been building for months suddenly threatens to overflow.

I pull my hand back, crossing my arms. "What about my goals, Evan?"

His eyes dart around the restaurant, like he's already embarrassed by this conversation. Like I'm making a scene by simply questioning him.

He leans forward slightly. "Don’t get the way you get."

My appetite vanishes, replaced by a hollow feeling in my chest. I sit back, staring at him, suddenly so, so tired. Our relationship—the accumulation of quiet disappointments—settles over me.

"What's the big surprise, Evan?" I ask, voice flat.

He exhales dramatically. "Well, now you ruined the night."

I’m incredulous. "I ruined the night? By trying to eat a piece of not-bread-bread at a restaurant you brought me to?"

He gives me a look, like I'm being dramatic. "It's your attitude, Izzy. That's what ruined it."

I laugh, no humor in it. The sound is hollow, echoing the emptiness I feel.

"Just say what you were going to say," I tell him. "Or don't. I don't care."

His eyes darken slightly, but he sits up straighter. "The owner of this place is also a nutritionist," he says, like this is supposed to be impressive. "I hired them to help you with your diet."

I just stare. I wait for him to laugh, to say it's a joke, that he isn't actually doing this.

But he doesn't.

He just looks at me expectantly.

Like I should be grateful. Like this is the best gift he could possibly give me—professional help to fix what he sees as my greatest flaw.

Like I should thank him for pointing out, yet again, that my body doesn't meet his standards.

A slow, simmering anger rises in my chest. For a brief moment, I think I'm finally going to say something. I think I'm going to tell him off, to tell him exactly what I think about him treating me like I'm some kind of problem he needs to fix. The words build in my throat, a pressure seeking release.

But then he gives me that look. The one that says there's no arguing with him on this. The one that says if I fight back, he'll just twist it around until somehow, it's my fault. And maybe he's right.

Maybe working with a nutritionist won't be so bad. Maybe I do need to be better about my diet. Maybe I am overreacting. I swallow back everything I want to say, shrug my shoulders, and say, "Okay."

Evan smiles, like this is proof that he was right all along. Then, like clockwork, he pulls out his phone and starts scrolling. The waitress comes back, setting down some kind of kale dish that looks like it was blended with despair and garnished with disappointment.

I take one bite.

It tastes like grass.

I chew.

I swallow.

And I tell myself not to cry.

HE MADE HER CRY. I'M GOING TO END HIM.

CAL

Izzy said she had a last-minute meeting.

I didn't buy it.

And sure enough, when I glanced at the security feed a few minutes later, I saw her getting into Evan's car.

Jealousy hits me immediately, raw and unwelcome. I shouldn't feel this way about a woman who isn't mine, who has a boyfriend, who I barely know outside of surveillance feeds and brief interactions. But I do.

I'm feeling anger, mostly, pulsing through my veins.

Possessive in a way I have no right to be.

Dangerous because I know exactly how far I'm willing to go.

I should not be this pissed about her going out with her own boyfriend.

Except, it's not about that. It's not about him being her boyfriend. It's about the fact that he's Evan. And I know—with absolute certainty—that he's going to do something to hurt her feelings tonight. The pattern is too clear, too consistent to ignore.

I know that because I know his type. The kind of guy who doesn't appreciate what he has. The kind of guy who thinks love is about control, about shaping someone into the version of themselves that's most convenient for him. I've seen it in how he treats her, how he talks to her, how he barely acknowledges her presence.

And Izzy—Jesus. She's too good for that.

She deserves better.

I check her GPS feed, the blue dot pulsing on my screen. She's at some health-conscious restaurant. The location shows a place with a 4.5-star rating and a menu full of words like "sustainable," "organic," and "grain-free."

Yeah. That tracks.

Not saying she doesn't eat healthy, but if Izzy were picking a dinner spot, it wouldn't be a place that grows six different types of wheatgrass in-house. From what I've observed, she's got a normal relationship with food—when she remembers to eat at all.

I shake my head, exhaling through my nose, and finish my rounds. Nothing else left to do tonight. Time to go home.

I step into my apartment. The door closes behind me with a soft click, sealing me away from the outside world.

Keys on the counter. Boots off. Shower to wash off the bullshit.

The hot water beats against my skin, washing away the tension but not the thoughts of her. They linger, persistent, refusing to be scrubbed away.

By the time I walk into my bedroom, towel around my waist, hair still damp, I should be feeling better.

I don't.

I sit down on my twin-sized bed, feeling every bit of the too-small mattress beneath me. I could buy a bigger one. I could buy a king-sized, pillow-top, top-of-the-line bed if I wanted.

But some habits die hard. I haven't slept in anything bigger than a cot since I got out of the army. It doesn't feel right. It feels like too much space.

My dog tags clink lightly as I lean forward, the metal cool against my chest. I still wear them. Not for sentiment, not exactly. Just never got used to taking them off.

I probably also need therapy.

But don't we all.

I grab my phone, flipping through it without really seeing anything. Then, before I even think about what I'm doing, I pull up Obsess AI.

I tap into Caleb's settings, skimming through the customizations. There's a lot here. More than I realized. The intricate details of the app reveal themselves as I dig deeper into the interface.

And I'm not stupid.

If I'm going to keep this going—if I'm going to keep doing this to her, for her—I need to know exactly how the system works.

I scroll through the engagement settings and realize I need to make some adjustments. My fingers move quickly across the screen, implementing changes that will give me more control.

I type in a quick code through the backdoor access I created. Response Delay: If user sends a message and there is no activity within 120 seconds, AI will assume control and generate a response. Typing indicator will remain active in the meantime.

I nod. Useful.

It gives me a buffer. A way to make sure her messages never go unanswered but still gives me the opportunity to take control or not. The perfect balance of automation and intervention.