Instead, I move to the kitchen, pulling open the fridge. The cool air hits my face as I scan the contents, but it’s not like there’s much to choose from. Everything is arranged in neat, precise rows—bottled water, protein shakes, prepped meals in glass containers. Functional, efficient. Nothing here says ‘home.’ Just Sanford making sure I’m set for the first week.

That asshole is really trying to make me stay, isn’t he? I grab a bottle of water and twist off the cap, setting it on the counter before moving to the cupboard, where there are a lot of staples. Right away, I find what I was looking for, saltines.

It’s not much, but it’s something. Bland enough to settle a stomach, assuming she even wants to eat. I turn back, holding out the crackers first. “Not exactly a five-star meal, but it might help.”

Blythe’s gaze flicks to the package, then up to me. “You keep saltines in a kitchen that looks like it belongs in a Michelin-star restaurant?”

I smirk, setting them down beside the water. “Figured I should have at least one thing in here that isn’t meal-prepped within an inch of its life,” I lie because she doesn’t need to know that my not-so-silent partner set all this up for me as a way to convince me that Birchwood Springs is the place to live.

She exhales, her lips almost twitching. It’s the closest thing to amusement I’ve seen from her since she walked in.

I lean against the counter, arms crossed. “Sit down, Blythe.”

She hesitates.

I arch a brow. “You agreed to talk, remember?”

She does, but it’s like she needs another second to convince herself. Finally, she steps further inside, moving toward the kitchen counter like it’s a compromise.

“Sit,” I insist, showing her the barstool. She lowers herself, spine straight, hands in her lap like she’s poised to bolt at the first sign of trouble.

I watch her, waiting.

She watches me right back.

Whatever this conversation is about to be, I already know one thing—Blythe isn’t going to make it easy.

Which is why I take another measure to make her talk. I grab a glass with a dish towel, fill it with sparkling water, and set it in front of her. The bubbles rise to the surface, catching the light, and for a second, she just stares at it.

“That should settle your stomach.”

She hesitates before reaching for it, fingers touching the cool surface, imprinting the glass. That’s all I need. Contact. A trace of her left behind. She takes a small sip, the condensation pooling at the base of the crystal, and when she finally sets it down, I deliver my first question.

“Who are you?”

She barely blinks. “Blythe⁠—”