I move into the kitchen, settling onto one of the bar stools. The marble countertop is cool under my arms, grounding in its solidity.
"Where did you learn to cook?" I ask, genuinely curious.
He plates the eggs before answering. "My mother taught me. When I was young. She knew how to make something good out of very little." He pours espresso into a small cup, adds just a touch of sugar without asking, and slides it across to me. "We didn't have much when I was growing up."
I accept the coffee, noting how he prepared it exactly how I like it. As if we do this every morning. As if this is normal instead of surreal.
"We lived in a shitty apartment with a hot plate and a window that didn't close properly." He brings over two plates, settingone in front of me before taking the stool beside me. Close, but not too close. "She'd work twelve-hour days cleaning houses, and then she'd come home and make sure I knew how to feed myself."
"That must have been hard. For both of you."
"It was survival." He picks up his fork but doesn't eat, just stares at his plate. "Sometimes, when the houses she cleaned had chickens or bought eggs in bulk, she'd slip a couple into her bag. Just two or three, nothing they'd notice missing."
I watch his face as he talks, seeing something vulnerable beneath the exhaustion. This isn't a story designed to manipulate me. It's just memory, raw and honest.
"It would be the best meal we'd had all week. Eggs became... I don't know. Comfort. Safety. The closest thing to luxury we could afford."
"She stole for you."
"She stole for us both." He finally meets my eyes. "I'm not telling you this for sympathy. You asked how I learned to cook. That's the answer."
I take a bite of the eggs. They're perfectly prepared—creamy, seasoned well, the kind of thing you'd get at an expensive restaurant. But there's something else in them too. Care. Attention. The muscle memory of someone who learned this skill out of necessity and never forgot.
"They're good," I say quietly.
"Thanks."
We eat in silence for a few minutes. It should be awkward, the captor and his former prisoner sharing breakfast like normal people. But somehow, it's not. It's present. Real in a way nothing else has been since this nightmare started.
"You look tired," I observe.
"I haven't been sleeping well."
"Guilty conscience?"
"Among other things." He drains his espresso in one swallow. "Hard to sleep when the only thing that matters is something you can't control."
The honesty catches me off guard. No deflection, no casual dismissal. Just admission that he's as lost in this as I am.
"Is that what I am? The thing you can't control?"
"You're the thing I won't control. There's a difference."
I set down my fork, the eggs suddenly sitting heavy in my stomach. "That's not fair. You can't put that distinction on me like it absolves you."
"I'm not putting anything on you. I'm just being honest about where we are." He stands and takes his plate to the sink. "You asked me to stop lying. That's the truth."
I watch him rinse the dish with the same careful attention he gave to cooking. Everything he does is controlled, like he's afraid that if he lets go for even a moment, everything will fall apart.
"What have you been doing?" I ask. "While I've been upstairs processing."
He's quiet for a long moment, his back still to me. "Do you really want to know?"
"I asked for honesty. That includes the ugly parts."
He turns around, leaning against the counter, and I see something dark flicker in his expression. "I've been tracking down the man who was supposed to buy you. Khalid Al-Zahrani. A businessman from Dubai who collects women like art."
"And?"
