Chapter 3 Wooden Utensils
Stella's POV
I froze, the package of stainless steel flatware still dangling from my hand. The shift in Ethan's demeanor was so sudden, so complete, that for a second I couldn't process it. One moment he'd been calmly plating salmon, and the next he looked like I'd pulled a weapon on him.
"I—what?" I managed, my voice coming out smaller than I intended.
"Take it away." He wasn't yelling, but the intensity in his tone made my stomach drop. His eyes were fixed on the package in my hand like it was a live grenade. "Please."
The "please" should have softened it, but it didn't. It sounded forced, like he was barely holding himself together.
"It's just silverware," I said, confusion mixing with a creeping sense of unease. "I thought—"
"I don't care what you thought." He cut me off, his jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping. "I need you to remove it from this apartment immediately."
What the hell is happening?
"Ethan, I don't understand—"
"I'm allergic." The words came out clipped, final. "To certain metals. That—" he gestured sharply at the package without looking directly at it, "—makes me extremely uncomfortable. Get rid of it."
I stared at him. "Allergic? To metal?"
"Yes." His eyes finally met mine, and there was something in them I couldn't quite name. Not anger, exactly. Something colder. "Allergic. Now please, take it outside."
My hands were shaking as I shoved the flatware back into the shopping bag. "I'm sorry, I didn't—I'll just—"
I didn't finish the sentence, just grabbed the bag and practically ran for the door.
The hallway was blessedly empty and quiet. I leaned against the wall, clutching the shopping bag to my chest while my heart hammered against my ribs.
Allergic to metal. Allergic to certain metals.
I'd heard of weird allergies before. Lucy's cousin was allergic to sunlight, which sounded like something out of a vampire novel but was apparently a real medical condition. But metal? The stuff that was literally everywhere?
I looked down at the bag in my hands. Thirty dollars' worth of perfectly normal forks and knives.
He looked at them like they were going to kill him.
That wasn't the reaction of someone with a mild sensitivity. That was visceral, immediate fear dressed up as anger.
I walked to the end of the hallway, where an old fire extinguisher cabinet hung slightly crooked on its hinges. The door didn't quite close all the way—perfect for hiding things you weren't quite ready to throw away.
Thirty dollars is thirty dollars, I thought, wedging the shopping bag behind the extinguisher. If this really is some kind of medical thing, I'll toss it later. But if it's just... some person eccentricity...
I didn't finish the thought. Didn't want to.
Get it together, Stella. You're a music student. You know how to read a performance. Just... observe.
I took a deep breath and headed back inside.
Ethan was already seated at the dining table when I slipped back through the door, his posture relaxed, hands folded loosely in front of him. The tension from five minutes ago had evaporated so completely I almost wondered if I'd imagined the whole thing.
Almost.
The salmon was plated beautifully—golden-brown crust with flecks of herbs, roasted vegetables arranged artfully on the side. My stomach growled despite the anxiety still churning in my gut.
"I'm sorry," I said quietly, sliding into the chair across from him. "I didn't know about your... condition. I'll be more careful."
"It's fine." His voice was back to that calm, measured tone. He pushed my plate toward me with one finger. "You couldn't have known. Eat before it gets cold."
I picked up the wooden fork, and immediately understood why he'd made the salmon so tender. The tines barely pierced the fish, and when I tried to cut a piece with the wooden knife, the blade slid uselessly across the surface once, twice, before finally separating a chunk through sheer force of will.
This is like trying to eat steak with chopsticks, I thought grimly.
But I didn't say anything. Just kept sawing away at my dinner while Ethan ate across from me with the ease of someone who'd been using wooden utensils his entire life. His movements were fluid, precise—the angle of his knife, the way he speared each bite, even the rhythm of his chewing.
How long has he been doing this?
I tried to sneak glances at him between bites. The way condensation formed almost instantly on his water glass when he picked it up, like his hands were running a fever. The way his eyes tracked the tiny scrape of my wooden fork against the plate—a sound I could barely hear myself, but his gaze snapped to it immediately.
And the salmon. God, the salmon was practically raw in the middle, the flesh still translucent pink when I cut into it. I preferred my fish cooked through, but Ethan was eating his like it was sashimi.
My fork slipped, and a piece of salmon skidded across my plate, nearly flying off the edge. I lunged forward to catch it, the wooden tines scraping porcelain with a screech that made me wince.
Ethan's eyes lifted to mine immediately. "Everything alright?"
"Fine," I said quickly, stabbing the runaway fish. "Just... getting used to these."
"You will," he said, and something in his tone made it sound less like reassurance and more like a certainty.
I focused on my plate, chewing mechanically. The salmon was delicious—perfectly seasoned, the herbs complementing the richness of the fish—but I barely tasted it. My mind was too busy replaying the last forty-eight hours on loop.
Waking up married to my professor. The wedding photos. The drive to Providence at 3 AM. The wooden utensils. The metal allergy. The way his skin feels too warm.
"Stella?"
I didn't hear him. My wooden fork was poised over a piece of fish, but I wasn't seeing it. I was seeing Ethan's face when I'd held up that bag of utensils—the way his pupils had contracted, the way his jaw had locked.
"Stella."
Still nothing. The fork descended, missed the fish entirely, and scraped against the plate again.
A sharp rap on the table made me jolt, and the fork nearly tumbled from my fingers. I looked up to find Ethan watching me, one eyebrow slightly raised, his knuckles still resting on the wood where he'd knocked.
"Sorry," I blurted, heat flooding my cheeks. "I was just... thinking."
"I noticed." There was something almost amused in his expression now, a slight curve to his mouth that wasn't quite a smile. "How are you finding the wooden utensils?"
Terrible. Absolutely fucking terrible.
"They're... an adjustment," I said diplomatically.
"You'll get used to them," he said again, and this time I caught the faint edge of something playful in his voice. Like he knew exactly how much I was struggling and found it entertaining.
I set down my fork, my appetite officially gone. "Let me clean up," I said, standing abruptly. "You cooked, so I'll handle the dishes."
