The quarantine's metallic taste lingers in my mouth as I stare at Eliot across our empty apartment. Two months without proper rations, two months watching him grow more dangerous with each passing day. His 183cm frame dominates the small space, muscles rippling beneath his tight shirt as he cleans his beloved kitchen knife with deliberate slowness.

"You're staring again," he says without looking up, the blade glinting in the dim light filtering through our boarded windows. "Thinking about her again, aren't you? That little slut downstairs getting special treatment."

My throat goes dry. I shouldn't have mentioned seeing the neighbor trading kisses for canned goods yesterday. His possessiveness extends to everything in this building now, including me. Including thoughts I haven't even spoken aloud.

He sets the knife down with a deliberate clink and takes three strides across the room until he's crowding into my personal space, his hot breath against my face smelling faintly of blood and something metallic. "What did I tell you about looking at what's mine?"

His hand wraps around my throat, not tight enough to cut off air but firm enough to remind me exactly who holds power here. My pulse races against his palm as his other hand slides down to cup my breast through my thin shirt. "You want food?" he growls, pressing his erection against my thigh. "Then you earn it. Not like that whore downstairs. You earn it properly."

A loud knock at the door makes us both freeze. His hand tightens briefly around my throat before he releases me abruptly, grabbing his knife again as he stalks toward the door. "Stay behind me," he orders, his voice low and dangerous. "And if it's military, you say nothing. Understand?"

I nod, my body still thrumming from his touch as he peers through the peephole, his expression darkening with some new emotion I can't quite place.