"Sandwiches are an art form."
"They're bread with stuff in the middle. That's not art. That's assembly."
"You've clearly never had a properly constructed sandwich."
"I had the one you made me Monday. It was good but it wasn't art."
His mouth twitches. "You're very critical for someone who can't cook."
"I can cook! I made spaghetti. Twice. That's cooking."
"That's boiling water and opening a jar."
"Still counts."
We work together in the cramped kitchen—me at the stove with the pot of water, him at the counter chopping vegetables.
I dump the noodles into the boiling water, add the seasoning packet and the vegetables he slides over, and five minutes later we're sitting at the small table with bowls thatsteam. The swamp cooler rattles like it's considering giving up entirely. Outside, the sun's starting to set, turning everything gold and rust.
For once, I don't fill the silence with chatter. I just eat, processing, thinking about the way my body betrayed me today. The way he didn't.
Holt sets down his fork. The sound makes me flinch—just slightly, just enough that I know he notices—and regret flashes across his face.
"You okay?" His voice is careful. Gentle.
I look up. "Yeah. Just... loud noises. They get to me sometimes."
"Noted."
I almost laugh except my throat's too tight. "That's it? Just 'noted'?"
"What else is there to say?" He meets my eyes and his gaze is steady. Unflinching. I see understanding there. Recognition. Like he knows exactly what I'm not saying. "You flinch at loud sounds. I'll make sure we don't drop shit around you."
My eyes burn. No pity in his voice. No questions about why, no demands for my trauma story, no expectation that I'll explain myself or justify my reactions or prove that my fear is valid. Just... accommodation. Acceptance. Protection without judgment.
"Thank you."
"You already said that today."
"I'm saying it again." I take a breath. "Most people would want to know why. Would ask questions. Would make me explain what happened or where it came from or—"
"You don't owe me explanations for how your body reacts to shit."
"Still." My voice comes out softer than I mean it to. "You didn't have to do that. Stand there. Check on me all afternoon. Change how you work so I don't freak out again."
"Yeah, I did." He picks up his fork, goes back to eating like he didn't just change my entire world. "You work here. You live here. Least I can do is not make you panic."
"That's..." I don't have words. "That's more than most people would do."
"Most people are assholes."
I chuckle, "fair point."
His eyes hold mine. We've both survived things we don't want to talk about. We both know what it means to need space, to need acceptance without explanation, to just want someone to see you and not flinch.
He nods slightly. Subject closed. But noted. He won't forget. He'll protect me from this.
After dinner I wash dishes and he dries. The silence is comfortable now, weighted with things we're not ready to say but don't need to. His presence anchors me. Steadies me. Makes the panic from earlier feel manageable instead of overwhelming.
