“Evening, little boss,” he greeted, voice a shade softer. “You fed?”
“She ate,” I answered, lifting the towel to clear a corner of the counter. “You didn’t have to?—”
“I did,” he cut in, not sharp, just final. He set the second bag down and began to pull items out with the same care he used for words. Eggs. Milk. Diapers. A small bag of greens tied with a knot. A new light bulb in a cardboard sleeve. He laid everything where it belonged like he’d been in this kitchen before and remembered the map.
I watched him replace the bulb over the sink. It warmed on the first turn and brought the room a shade brighter. The storm pressed a palm to the window and slid it down.
“Thank you,” I spoke, finally, because the room asked me to.
He nodded once and didn’t make it larger. The radio melted into commercials. The building somewhere above us coughed its old pipe cough. Aaliyah pulled herself to standing on the doorframe and wobbled, then caught balance, proud.
“Grams come by today?” he asked, as if it were natural for him. He’d only met Grams a handful of times, but she drew everyone in like that.
“No, she called.” I answered. “It’s been a long few days.”
He took that in and set the empty paper bags flat under the sink. He rinsed his hands, not touching the faucet with his fingers—knuckles only. He reached into his pocket and, like he’d planned it hours ago, produced a small screwdriver. He tappedthe left cabinet door hinge, tightened it by a half turn. The door closed smooth.
“Always the hinge,” he muttered.
I didn’t say anything. It felt good to watch something align without me doing it.
From the cradle of the storm, a siren started and then turned down another street. Aaliyah tried out a new word that wasn’t a word yet and clapped at herself. Saint angled his body, so he wasn’t blocking my view of her, then stepped back from the counter and looked at the window seam I’d wiped with my thumb.
He reached into the second bag and set a folded dish rag on the sill, just enough to catch the line of water if it returned. He didn’t explain. He didn’t need to.
“Want something to eat?” I quizzed, because hospitality is a muscle I keep in shape even when my heart is tired.
“If you sit with me,” he allowed the hint of a smile at the corner like he knew I’d try to serve him standing.
“Aaliyah runs the table,” I countered.
“She does,” he agreed.
The radio climbed back from ads. Rain softened one notch and then strengthened in the next breath. Aaliyah babbled to the rhythm of her own tapping. I felt the ring against my sternum heat again. I pressed my palm to it.
“Lord,” I told Him without moving my mouth, “keep order.”
Saint waited for me to sit. I did. Silence spread between us like another place setting. His eyes stayed on Aaliyah where she curled against my hip, but the weight of him filled the room anyway. The radio dipped low under the hum of the fridge, rain sliding down the glass in tired streaks. He pulled a chair out and waited. I nodded at the spoon. He fixed a plate. He ate quiet. Fork on ceramic, soft scrape, no rush. Aaliyah crawled under the table to knock the chair leg with her palm, a game she inventedfor herself. He shifted his foot so she wouldn’t bump her head. He watched her, then looked up at me when he felt me watching him.
I touched the chain under my shirt and let the words slip under my breath where only heaven could hear them:
“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves those crushed in spirit.”
The scripture wrapped soft around the edges of my chest, like a quilt pulled up on a cold night. Comfort without noise. Comfort that reminded me why I kept my vow.
Saint didn’t move. Didn’t press. Just finished the last of his plate, shoulders loose, the quiet between us turning into a kind of shield instead of a trap.
He stood from his chair and went to wipe the area he’d sat in without a word. The rag moved slow, picking up crumbs I’d missed earlier, grease rings disappearing under steady circles. He didn’t huff. Didn’t perform. Just worked until the wood looked new again, then folded the rag and set it at the sink like a period at the end of a simple sentence.
Aaliyah babbled from the floor. “St—” Her little hand reached. He bent without thinking and let her clutch his finger. She giggled, breath fogging the air between them. Something in the room shifted—quieter at the edges, less jagged. I felt it in my ribs before I admitted it.
I turned to the sink, hot water steaming up, plate after plate slipping slick through my hands. Grease still hung in the kitchen—fried chicken, a sliver of onions, butter softening on the stove’s back eye.
His paper list lay folded near the bread box laid near the bags he placed on the counter. Diapers, milk, formula, bleach, wipes, cereal, rice, oil. Square checkboxes filled with dark ink where he’d already handled it. My lists bend and loop and trail off thepage. His sits straight. I hated how much that steadiness calmed the room.
“You don’t gotta walk to the store no more,” he offered, voice low, even. “Leave the list. I’ll run it whenever you need me too.”
“That’s not your weight,” I deflected, jaw tight.
