This time he does look up. His eyes are so cold, my entire body shivers. “I did try. Once. And right when I was on the verge of a breakthrough someone started blasting the Frozen soundtrack at full volume.”

I flush. “I was cleaning my room. I had no idea you were home.”

“Mmm.” He nods, and then does something I did not expect: he comes closer. He takes a few leisurely steps, making his way through the beautiful mix of ultramodern appliances and classic furniture of the kitchen until he’s towering over me. Staring down as though I’m an ant problem he thought he’d long gotten rid of. He smells like shampoo and expensive fabric, and he’s still holding the butter knife. Can you stab someone with that? I don’t know, but Liam Harding looks like he’d be able to murder someone (i.e., me) with a beach ball. “Isn’t your emotional-support creamer bad for the environment, Mara?” he asks, voice low and deep. “Think of the impact of ultraprocessed foods. The toxic ingredients. All that plastic.”

He is so condescending, I could bite him. Instead I square my shoulders and step even closer. “I do something you’ve probably never heard of—it’s called recycling.”

“Is that so?” He sets the knife on the counter and glances next to me, at the bins I installed after I moved in. They are overflowing, but only because I’ve been too busy to bring them to the center. And he knows it.

“There’s no pickup in the neighborhood. But I plan to drive to the— What are you . . .” Liam’s hands close around my waist, his fingers so long, they meet both on my back and above my belly button. My brain stutters to a stop. What the hell is he—?

He lifts me up till I’m hovering above the floor, then effortlessly moves me a few inches to the side of the refrigerator. Like I’m as light as an Amazon delivery box, the giant ones that for some reason have only a single stick of deodorant packed inside. I sputter as indignantly as I can, but he doesn’t pay any attention to me. Instead he sets me on my feet, opens the fridge, grabs a jar of raspberry compote, and murmurs, “Then you better get to it,” with one last long, intense look.

He goes back to his toast, and I go back to not existing in his universe.

Lovely.

I growl my way out of the room, half flustered and all homicidal, still feeling the heels of his palms pressing into my skin. In his sleep. I swear I’m going to kill him in his damn sleep. When he least expects it. And then I’ll celebrate by throwing empty bottles of creamer at his corpse.

Ten minutes later I am rage-sweating, walking to work while on an emergency venting-videocall (ventocall) with Sadie. There have been a lot of these in the past few weeks. A lot.

“. . . he doesn’t even drink coffee. Which means that he’s either flushing creamer down the toilet to spite me or chugging it down like it’s water—and I honestly don’t know which scenario would be worse, because on the one hand, one serving is like six hundred and forty calories, and Liam still manages to only have three percent body fat, but on the other, taking time out of his busy schedule to deprive me of my creamer is a gesture of unprecedented cruelty that no one should ever . . .” I trail off when I notice her bemused expression. “What?”