She ducks her head, a little shy. “You say that now. Wait ‘til you try the lasagna. That’s my actual skill. These are chaos in a pan.”
I snort. “Chaos tastes pretty damn good then.”
She tears off a small piece from hers and pops it in her mouth, then winces, sticking her tongue out slightly.
“Hot,” she mumbles.
“Told you you’d burn it again,” I say.
“Tradition,” she insists around a mouthful.
The kettle clicks. She jumps up, pours tea into two mugs, and drops a bag into each. She moves around me easily now, like my presence has settled into the space instead of sitting on top of it. When she sits back down again, she wraps both hands around her mug and looks at me for a long moment. There’s something in her eyes I can’t quite name. Not pity. Not gratitude. Something… searching.
“What?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light. “Do I have icing on my face or something?”
“A little,” she says.
I reach up to swipe my cheek. She shakes her head. “Other side.” I go for the other side. She laughs quietly.
“Still missed.”
Then, before I can react, she leans over the table, reaching out. Her thumb is gentle as she wipes the corner of my mouth. Her skin is warm. The touch is brief, but it feels like someone just flipped a switch inside my chest.
“There,” she says softly, sitting back. “Got it.”
I don’t move. For a second, all I can hear is my own heartbeat and the tick of the clock on the wall.
She clears her throat. “So,” she says, staring down at her plate. “What now?”
The question hangs between us. Not flippant. Not casual. Heavy. I pause. Then answer, honestly. Because if there’s one place I’ve learned not to lie, it’s here. With her.
“I don’t know,” I say.
I set my fork down. My fingers curl around the edge of the table, grounding myself.
“I don’t have a plan,” I go on. “I don’t have a job. I don’t have… anything, really. Just a name, a duffel bag, and a bike in a friend’s garage if he hasn’t sold it for parts.”
Her face doesn’t crumple. She doesn’t look disappointed. She just nods, like she expected this answer.
“Okay,” she says.
“Okay?” I echo, slightly thrown. “That's all you’ve got?”
“What else do you want me to say?” she asks, meeting my gaze. “That you should have a five-year plan and a color-coded spreadsheet before I let you have more tea?”
A reluctant smile tugs at my mouth. “Might help your plants.”
She shrugs one shoulder. “My plants thrive on chaos and emotional oversharing, thanks.”
I huff out a breath, then let it go. “I don’t want to be a burden,” I say quietly. “I don’t want to… show up in your life and just take. Space. Time. Food. Whatever.”
“You keep saying that,” she says. “That you’re not here to take anything.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you do,” she replies. “That’s kind of the point.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
