That night, Lydia didn't try anything else.

Caleb's warning was cold and resolute—he would truly throw her out like trash if she pushed further. She lay under his restraint briefly, then silently returned to the bed and curled up under the covers.


In the darkness, mere feet separated them, yet it felt like a bottomless canyon.

Lydia expected that after tonight's confrontation, morning would bring merciless eviction.

However, when she woke, Caleb had already left. On the dining table sat a glass of milk and a toasted bagel, with a note in simple, direct handwriting:


"Eat and leave."

Lydia read the line, her mouth twisting into a mocking smile. What a contradictory man—harshest words, softest actions.


Of course, she didn't leave.

She changed into her silk nightgown and surveyed his masculine space like its mistress. She carelessly pushed his books aside for her fashion magazines; used his laptop to browse expensive jewelry that clashed with the simple surroundings; even messed up his perfectly folded blanket before lying on it lazily, letting her scent permeate the room.

She was, in her own way, declaring war on the apartment's owner.

When Caleb returned that evening, he encountered this scene. He said nothing, just silently restored his belongings, tossed her magazines onto the sofa, and began cooking.

After dinner, he tossed a shopping bag before her.

"What's this?"

"Something you need," he said coldly. "I don't want the neighbors misunderstanding again."

Inside was a new hair dryer with women's shampoo and conditioner—the cheapest supermarket brand, so inexpensive it almost made her laugh.

But for some reason, she didn't laugh.

Days passed like this.

Every morning he warned her to leave, yet returned with extra dinner. He never spoke to her, but after she complained about the cold bathroom, he silently bought a non-slip mat. He still slept on the floor, heart firmly locked away.

He was like a dutiful jailer, watching over a prisoner he despised yet felt obligated to care for.

Until that night.

Death's specter attacked her dreams again. The rusty warehouse smell, excruciating pain, Damian's cold eyes... Lydia struggled in her nightmare, unconsciously whimpering.

"...Mom..."

She curled into a ball like a lost child.

"I don't want to die..."

Suddenly, someone approached. A warm, slightly calloused hand awkwardly patted her shoulder.

She jolted awake, eyes snapping open.

In the moonlight, Caleb half-crouched beside her bed, wearing a complex expression—shock mixed with confusion. He'd probably expected mischief but instead heard her most vulnerable secret.

Their eyes met. The air froze.

Caleb's hand withdrew as if burned. Without a word, he fled back to his bedroll, turning away.

That night, for the first time since arriving, Lydia felt completely lost.