Chapter 0135

Hannah

“Eat.” Noah held the steaming plate of casserole in front of me, thrusting it a little closer to my face. I narrowed my eyes and leaned away, shooting him a wary look.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Yes, you are. You have to eat something.”

Yes. Dammit. Noah was right; I was starving. But I wasn’t about to eat that, and especially not in front of him. Not when the comb he’d used when he spent the night with another woman was sitting just a few feet away.

Turning my head, I waved him away. “I’m fine. I’ll eat later.”

Noah sighed and circled the couch, coming to sit beside me. “I know you’ve been starving yourself again,” he said. “You need calories to survive, Hannah. You know that, right?”

I swallowed, thinking back on the night I had died—the night he still didn’t know about. If only he knew. If only he knew that I had firsthand experience of that.

But even then, that little eating-disorder voice was strong in the back of my mind. I would not eat tonight.

“I haven’t been starving myself,” I lied.

“Is that so?” Noah suddenly reached out and grabbed my wrist, holding it up to the light so we could both see. His large hand fit easily around my wrist with space between—not that I was surprised. He just had big hands. But then, almost as though he were reading my mind, he began to slide his hand up my arm. I felt a shudder ripple through me at his warm touch, his calloused palms brushing against my skin.

It wasn’t until his hand went past my elbow and halfway up my upper arm that his fingers stopped being able to reach all the way around, and he finally stopped.

“See?” he said. “I shouldn’t be able to fit my fingers around someone’s upper arm, especially not with space still in the middle.” He dropped my arm and shoved the plate closer. “You may be making efforts in public to show that you’re in recovery, but you’re not following those same practices in private.”

I felt my breath catch, realizing he was right; despite all my public efforts, such as attending that group counseling session, I wasn’t doing much in my personal time to get better. Sure, maybe here or there I would eat a nibble of something or try to use my mantra, but… it wasn’t enough.

Finally, I took the plate with a sigh. Noah watched quietly as I speared a piece of pasta with my fork and raised it to my lips. My hand trembled as the fork hovered there, the tantalizing scent of garlic and rich, creamy sauce wafting through my nose.

But I couldn’t do it. Inside, it was like that little voice was screaming: Too many carbs! Don’t eat it! No! Nooo!

The fork fell back to my plate with a clatter. Almost as though a switch had gone off, my eyes began to prickle with hot tears, and it was all I could do to keep them from spilling over.

“I… I can’t,” I whispered, shoving the plate back into his hands. “Leave me alone. I don’t want to eat.”

For several endless moments, Noah simply stared at me with the plate in his lap. I figured he might give up and leave, just as he always did. That he would go to Zoe’s bedside instead and give her the attention that I really needed. That he would later accuse me of not being in control of my emotions, that he would use this moment against me somehow when the divorce came.

But… he didn’t.

Rather, he picked my fork back up and held it out to me.

“Just one bite,” he said softly, leaning close so that his breath ruffled my hair. “Please. For me.”

I felt a knot form in my throat as I lifted my gaze to meet his. I hadn’t realized it, but a tear had escaped and streaked down my face, the salty liquid curving into my lips and touching the tip of my tongue. Noah’s green eyes remained fixed on my face, his hand steady as he held the fork out to me.

“Just one bite, and I’ll leave you alone.”

Swallowing, I nodded stiffly and opened my mouth. My lips trembled as Noah gently leaned forward, his eyes wandering down to my tongue. He hesitated for a moment, and for the briefest of seconds, I saw his own tongue dart out to wet his lips.

And then he gently pushed the pasta into my mouth. Shuddering, I closed my lips around the fork, pulled the pasta off, and chewed. Flavor exploded in my skull, rich green beans and savory cheese coating my tongue. I felt as though I had just taken a drug—my pupils dilating, my heart beginning to race.

Noah, noticing this, smiled a bit and speared another piece. “One more?” he asked.

I nodded quickly and took the second bite much more easily, chewing rapidly. It was delicious—truly delicious. And I was fucking starving.

Without a word, Noah gently handed me the plate. Over the next ten minutes, neither of us spoke as I sat there, eating every last piece of pasta. I didn’t care if it made me sick or if it made me hate myself. My body needed this nourishment. It craved it. With each bite, I felt less and less weak, the color returning to my skin and my tears turning into tears of joy.

All the while, Noah sat quietly and patiently, just… watching me.

When I was finished, I covered my mouth in shame and went to stand. “I’ll go wash—”

“Relax,” Noah said suddenly, grabbing the plate from me. “I’ll wash the dishes.”

Before I could even protest, Noah was already striding into the kitchen. I watched him go with wide eyes. A few moments later, I heard the sink running and the soft clinking of cutlery as he cleaned up.

Suddenly craving a glass of water, I stood and walked into the kitchen. I paused in the doorway, watching as he carefully washed each dish and placed it in the drying rack. With his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his hair slightly tousled, he looked incredibly handsome, even from behind.

My stomach twisted, though. Because seeing him like this, doing something so domestic as washing the dishes, was just a painful reminder that he had stayed here with Zoe. He wasn’t my husband, not really. He never had been. This was Zoe’s house. And the comb he had used was still sitting underneath the couch.

I felt my blood begin to simmer just beneath the surface once again. Turning with a clenched jaw, I strode over to the couch and got down on my knees, reaching out to retrieve the comb. I had to confront him now, rip off the band-aid before it really festered.

But my hand met nothing except empty carpet. Furrowing my brow, I leaned down further to peer under the couch. Lo and behold, the comb was gone. Not moved, not jostled, just… gone.

How…?

“Hannah, what are you doing down there?”