That made me smile. "My kitchen's yours."
She moved toward the kitchen island like she belonged there, opening cabinets and drawers with the focused determination of someone on a mission. "Where are your pots?"
"Left of the stove."
"Cutting board?"
"Drawer under the island."
"Olive oil?"
"Pantry. Second shelf."
After the fifth question, I realized I wasn't leaving. I pulled out a barstool and sat down, watching her move through my space like she was solving a puzzle.
"You don't have to stay," she said, glancing over her shoulder.
"I know."
But I didn't move. Couldn't. Something about watching her in my kitchen felt right in a way I didn't want to examine too closely.
She started pulling things out with confident determination that didn't quite match her uncertain movements. Eggs, cheese, bread, a tomato… She cracked an egg one-handed—impressive—then had to fish a piece of shell out of the bowl.
"So," I said, leaning forward on my elbows. "UX designer. What's that actually mean?"
"I make software easy to use. I figure out how people interact with technology and remove the frustrating parts." She whisked the eggs harder than necessary. "Like when you click a button and nothing happens, or you can't find what you're looking for. I fix that."
"Important work."
She shot me a look. "You sound skeptical."
"Not skeptical. Just different from what I do. I work with my hands. You work with…screens."
"Screens that run the world." But she was smiling. "Where's your whisk?"
"Drawer by the sink."
She found it and went back to beating the eggs. "What about you? You said you used to be a mechanic. Why 'used to be'?"
I watched her pour the eggs into the pan, noting the way she bit her lip in concentration. "Worked at a shop in Charlotte for fifteen years. Good job. Steady paycheck. But it wasn't…mine,you know? I was fixing everyone else's problems, living everyone else's schedule."
"So you left."
"My grandmother died three years ago and left me more than I expected. Enough to buy this land, build this place, and walk away from the noise." I paused, remembering those first months up here—the silence that had felt suffocating until it didn't. “I spent fifteen years fixing other people's problems. Figured it was time to fix my own life."
She flipped the omelet—almost gracefully. "That's brave."
"Or stupid."
"No." She looked at me then, really looked, and something passed between us that made my pulse kick up. "It's brave. Most people don't have the guts to walk away from steady for uncertain."
"Says the woman who left her parents' business to conquer Silicon Valley."
She laughed, turning back to the stove. "That's different. I was runningtowardsomething, not away from it."
"Same thing, different direction."
She plated the food—grilled cheese and an omelet that actually looked decent—and brought both plates to the island. Then she sat down beside me, close enough that our knees almost touched.
