The kind of meal that sticks to your ribs and makes you feel cared for.
It's my grandmother's recipe, passed down through generations of women who knew that sometimes the best way to say "I love you" is with a home-cooked meal.
Not that I love RJ.
I don't evenlikehim right now.
But I want to feed him.
Want to take care of him the way he refuses to take care of himself.
Want to show him that someone sees him—not the soldier, not the Brotherhood weapon, but the man underneath.
The man who shields people with his own body.
The man who sleeps on a broken mattress without complaint because he doesn't think he deserves better.
The mince browns in the pan, fat sizzling and popping.
The onions caramelize, turning golden and sweet.
The potatoes boil and soften, ready to be mashed into fluffy clouds.
I add butter—too much butter, the way my grandmother taught me—and a splash of cream.
The smells wrap around me like a blanket.
Home. Safety. Love.
I lose myself in the process, humming under my breath—some song I don't remember the name of, just a melody that lives in my bones.
My mother used to hum while she cooked too.
Maybe it's genetic.
Maybe it's just what happens when you're doing something that makes your soul quiet.
An hour later, the shepherd's pie is golden and bubbling, fresh out of the oven.
The crust of mashed potato is perfectly browned, crispy at the edges.
The filling is rich and savory, steam rising through the fork marks I pressed into the top.
I portion out two servings onto plates, grab forks and napkins, and head for the basement stairs.
Time to feed the beast.
When I get down the stairs I notice his door is slightly ajar.
I balance the plates in one hand and push it open with my shoulder, already practicing the casual tone I'm going to use.
Thought you might be hungry. Don't read into it. Just being a decent human.
The words die in my throat.
RJ is standing with his back to me, shirtless, one hand braced against the wall.
He's stretching—or trying to.
