Not because I make a sound—I don’t. But because she’s conditioned herself to react. To anticipate movement before it gets too close. She’s probably planning on how to defuse my anger before I even open my mouth because that’s what her husband used to do with her. One wrong look, and he would slap her. One wrong word, and he might break a bone. Too much alcohol and . . . fuck, why are there men like him still breathing in this world?

That alone makes my jaw clench.

“You need to see a doctor,” I tell her.

She flinches.

It’s quick, barely there, but I catch it. “You have to go to the doctor,” I insist.

“Not happening,” she mutters, shaking her head. “It’s not only too risky, but I also can’t afford it.”

I hold her gaze. “You need to get checked out—for yourself and the baby you’re expecting.”

Her jaw tightens, hands pressing harder into the fabric of her sleeves. “I take care of myself just fine.”

“What have you eaten today?”

I nod toward the half-eaten crackers sitting pathetically on the counter.

“Other than those.”

Silence.

Her fingers twitch, curling slightly like she wants to tuck them away, like she doesn’t want me to notice.

I step closer, then lower myself to a crouch in front of her. She stiffens. Doesn’t pull back, but she doesn’t lean in either.

Good. She’s still here. Still listening.

I keep my voice level. “You’ve been running for months. And now you’re running yourself into the ground.” I pause. Just long enough to make sure she hears me.

“That’s not survival, Blythe.”

She exhales, knuckles paling as she grips her sleeves. “And what if I don’t have a choice?”

“You do. I’ll give you all the choices,” I say. “The only question is how you want to live.”

She blinks, something shifting in her expression.

I don’t press further. Not yet. Instead, I lay out a solution.

“This is what we’re doing,” I start. “We’ll go to the doctor. No one’s seen you around yet. People around here believe what they want, so you’re my girlfriend.”

She snorts, the disbelief clear on her face. “Really? Just like that, I’m your girlfriend?”

“Yep. And I’ll take you to the doctor.” I fold my arms, waiting for her to argue. “That way, it won’t be weird that I’m paying for⁠—”

“No.” Her expression hardens. “I won’t let you pay for⁠—”

“It’s part of the benefits,” I cut in smoothly. “You’re going to be working for me full-time, right? I can’t just give you insurance. That would leave a trail, and I’m guessing we’d both like to avoid your ex-husband showing up at my doorstep.”