The Cream and the Coffee

Three days passed in a blur of sleeping pills and rain.

The house—the Glass House, she called it in her mind—was beautiful but cold. It was a marvel of modern architecture, all steel beams and transparency, perched precariously on a cliff edge. There were no curtains. Nowhere to hide. At night, the darkness pressed against the glass like a physical weight.

Liam was a diligent nurse. He brought her meals on a tray, helped her hobble to the bathroom, and changed the bandages on her forehead with surgical precision. He told her stories about their life. How they met at a farmers market in Seattle. How she loved his brisket. How they spent weekends hiking.

He constructed a life for her, brick by brick, but the mortar wouldn't hold.

On the fourth morning, Chloe managed to limp to the kitchen using a cane Liam had provided. She found him brewing coffee. The smell was rich and grounding.

"Good morning," Liam said, turning with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I was just about to bring this to you."

He handed her a mug. "Black, just how you like it."

Chloe took the mug. She brought it to her lips, anticipating the bitter bite. But her hand paused. Her muscle memory rebelled. She found herself looking around the counter, scanning for something white.

"Do you have cream?" she asked.

Liam froze. "You drink it black, Chloe. You always have. You say cream ruins the bean."

Chloe looked down at the dark liquid. The memory of the taste made her stomach churn. "I... I really want cream. And sugar. Lots of it."

Liam stared at her for a long second. It wasn't a look of confusion; it was a look of calculation. "Must be the concussion," he said smoothly. "Changing your taste buds. I'll get some next time I go into town."

He turned back to the stove. Chloe took a sip. It was vile. She forced it down, her heart rate picking up.

Later that afternoon, while Liam was outside chopping wood—a task he attacked with a terrifying, rhythmic violence—Chloe hobbled to the trash can in the kitchen. She dug through the coffee grounds and vegetable peels until she found a crumpled receipt.

It was from a department store in the nearest town, dated the day before she woke up.

* 2 pairs, Yoga Pants (Size S)*
* 3 T-Shirts (Size S)*
* 1 Pack, Cotton Underwear*
* 1 Toothbrush*

She stared at the slip of paper. Liam had told her he brought her things from the hospital. He implied her clothes were *hers*. But he had bought everything new. Why? Where were her old clothes? Why was there nothing in this house—no photos on the fridge, no knick-knacks, no mail—that had her name on it?

She looked out the window. Liam was shirtless now, despite the cold drizzle. His back was a map of muscle and scars. He swung the axe, splitting a log in one clean stroke.

He wasn't her boyfriend. He was her jailer.