SnitchSeeker.com - Basement: Kitchen

The pear gave way beneath Marina’s fingers after considerably more aggressive tickling than was probably necessary.

The portrait swung open and warm air immediately wrapped around her, thick with the smell of bread, cinnamon, melted butter, and something rich simmering somewhere deeper in the kitchen. Usually, the moment she stepped in here, she lit up. The kitchens had always felt safe in a strange sort of way. Loud. Warm. Alive. A place where nobody really expected anything from her except maybe not setting things on fire.

Tonight, though, Marina slipped inside quietly.

Her tie hung loose beneath the collar of her uniform, sleeves shoved messily to her elbows, blonde hair escaping in every direction from a ponytail that had long since stopped cooperating. She let the portrait swing shut behind her before pausing there for a moment, exhaling slowly through her nose like she’d only just realized how tightly wound she’d been all evening.

Because Adrian had noticed.

Of course he had.

And worse, he’d asked questions in that careful way people did when they already knew something was wrong and were just waiting for you to admit it yourself. Marina had spent the better part of the last week dodging those conversations with increasing creativity. Different corridors. Different staircases. Different exits from rooms entirely. At one point she’d pretended to remember urgent homework just to escape a perfectly reasonable “Are you alright?”

The problem was she didn’t actually know how to explain any of it.

Not the anger sitting permanently beneath her skin lately. Not the horrible sharpness she kept tripping over inside herself. Not the fact that every tiny thing seemed to hit too hard these days until suddenly she was throwing goblets at people or snapping over names or wanting to cry because someone looked at her too kindly.

It was exhausting.

Marina dragged a hand down her face before making her way toward one of the tables, climbing onto the bench sideways and pulling one knee up loosely against her chest. The kitchens buzzed around her in soft chaos while she stared unfocused at the wooden tabletop, jaw resting against her knuckles.

Then, after a long moment, she reached blindly for the nearest comfort food she could find like it alone might hold her together tonight.

Honestly, at this point, she would accept emotional healing in carbohydrate form.