Anger

A faint, uneven hum from the stove—easy to ignore.

Miranda didn’t ignore it.

She stood in the kitchen doorway, arms folded tight, watching Lars in the living room.

He had settled in.

Not just sitting—settled. One arm along the back of the couch, legs relaxed, eyes on the television like he’d already mapped the place and found it satisfactory.

Like it was his.

“You’re unbelievable,” she said.

He didn’t look at her. “Mm.”

That was enough.

“No—don’t do that,” she snapped, stepping forward. “Don’t just sit there like this is normal.”

“It is.”

“It’s not.”

“It is now.”

The kettle hissed louder.

She moved again, faster this time.

“You don’t get to decide that,” she said. “You don’t get to walk in here and act like everything just—shifts around you.”

“It already has.”

Her jaw tightened. “You think this replaces anything? You think you just step in and—what—take over?”

He finally looked at her. “No.”

“That’s exactly what you’re doing.”

“You’re repeating yourself.”

“I’m not repeating—” She cut herself off, breath sharp. “I’m not even listening to you.”

“That’s clear.”

The kettle rattled faintly.

She kept going anyway.

“You don’t care what I say. You don’t care what I want. You just sit there and—state things like they’re facts.”

“They are.”

“No, they’re not!”

She took another step.

Didn’t notice.

Another.

Still talking.

“This isn’t how people live. You don’t just move into someone’s life and start telling them what’s going to happen to them. That’s not normal, that’s not—”

“You’re getting closer.”

She stopped.

“What?”

“You crossed the room.”

She let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “No, I didn’t.”

But she had.

She felt it a second later—the shift. The lack of space. The fact that he wasn’t distant anymore, just… there.

Close.

Too close.

The heat from his body was a physical insult, and her own skin prickled with a furious awareness, as if her anger was a current arcing between them. Her breath caught, just for a moment. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek, and the space between their lips felt suddenly charged, a dangerous vacuum.

“Stay away from me,” she said sharply.

Like a command.

Like he’d moved.

Lars didn’t.

“I haven’t.”

That hit harder than anything else.

Because now she knew. She had done this to herself.

She stepped back quickly. Once. Then again. Resetting the space.

The kettle shrieked.

Miranda turned away fast, grabbing it off the heat. The sudden quiet rang in her ears.

“This is insane,” she muttered.

Behind her, Lars stood.

“You’re angry,” he said.

“No,” she shot back. “I’m furious.”

“That doesn’t change anything.”

“It changes everything.”

“It doesn’t.”

Her grip tightened around the kettle handle.

“You don’t get to say that.”

“I already did.”

She turned on him again, anger flaring, but it didn’t land the same way. It slipped. Lost shape.

“You think I just… go along with this?” she said. “That I adjust?”

“You will.”

“I’m not adjusting to you.”

“You already are.”

That one stuck.

Her mouth opened—

Nothing came out.

The silence stretched.

Then she turned away, sharper than necessary.

Cup. Coffee. Water.

Her hands moved before she decided they should.

Behind her, he said nothing.

Didn’t remind her.

Didn’t need to.

That was the worst part.

When she turned back, the cup was already in her hand.

She walked toward him.

Slower now.

Aware.

But still moving.

He didn’t move.

Just watched.

The space between them closed again—deliberate this time.

She held the cup out.

He reached for it.

Their fingers brushed—

—and the cup tipped.

A thin line of dark coffee spilled over his hand, beading on his skin, hot and stark against his knuckles. She didn’t pull back. A dark, vicious part of her wanted him to flinch, to hiss, to feel it. Instead, he just looked down at the coffee on his skin like it was an interesting but irrelevant fact.

Lars glanced down.

Then back at her.

No reaction.

No correction.

He lifted the cup and took a sip.

Like nothing had happened.

Like it didn’t matter.

Something in her chest tightened—

then dropped.

Not gone.

Just… spent.

The ghost of his touch, the sight of the coffee on his hand, burned behind her eyes as she fled up the stairs.

Miranda turned and walked out.

Up the stairs. Fast.

The bedroom door slammed shut.

Downstairs, Lars stood in the kitchen, cup in hand.

He took another sip.

Unbothered.

Behind him, the kettle ticked as it cooled.