I knock lightly on the bathroom door, hearing the shower already running.
"I'll leave these outside the door," I call through the wood.
"Thank you," her voice comes back, barely audible over the water.
Back in the kitchen, I open the refrigerator and stare at its contents, trying to decide what to make. She probably hasn't eaten all day. Wedding days are like that—everyone too busy with preparations to remember food.
I settle on grilled cheese and soup from a can. Simple, warm, comforting.
As I grate cheese onto slices of bread, I try not to think about her in my shower, washing away the remains of a wedding day that ended in flight. I try not to think about what kind of man would make someone like her—someone whose smile, even tear-stained, seems to light up the room—feel she had to run.
I focus instead on the practical: butter in the pan, bread golden and crisp, soup warming on the burner.
I hear the bathroom door open, then close again. A few minutes later, she comes out wearing my clothes. The sweatshirt hangs to mid-thigh, the sweatpants rolled several times at the waist and ankles. Her hair is damp, hanging in loose waves around her shoulders. Without all the stained makeup and that hairdo, she looks softer.
"Feel better?" I ask, flipping the sandwiches.
"Much." She hovers at the edge of the kitchen. "Can I help with anything?"
"All under control. Have a seat."
She pulls out one of the mismatched chairs at my small kitchen table. As she reaches for the napkins in the center, her elbow catches a small container of bolts I'd left there from a repair project. It tips over, scattering metal pieces across the table and floor.
"I'm so sorry!" She jumps up, immediately dropping to her knees to gather them.
"Leave it," I say, unable to stop the small laugh that escapes me. "They're just bolts. I shouldn't have left them there."
She looks up at me, startled by my laughter. Then, unexpectedly, she smiles too—a real smile that reaches her eyes.
"I'm kind of a disaster right now," she admits, getting to her feet.
"You're doing fine," I tell her, turning back to the stove. "Better than fine, considering."
I plate the sandwiches and ladle soup into bowls, then join her at the table. She takes a bite of the grilled cheese, closing her eyes briefly.
"This is exactly what I needed," she says. "Thank you."
We eat in silence for a few minutes.
I don't push her to talk, to explain. She'll share what she wants to, when she's ready.
Instead, I watch her from the corner of my eye, noting how she seems to relax incrementally with each passing moment—hershoulders lowering, her breathing deepening, her movements becoming less tightly controlled.
"I should probably explain," she finally says, setting down her spoon.
"You don't owe me an explanation."
"I know." She meets my eyes directly. "But if you’re helping me you deserve to know... some of it, anyway."
I nod, waiting.
"I left because I realized the man I was about to marry wanted to control me, not love me." Her voice is quiet but steady. "I overheard him talking about how marriage would give him the 'authority' to manage me. Like I was some kind of project."
Something hard and cold settles in my chest at her words. I recognize the pattern she's describing, I've seen it before in my work, in the calls we respond to that aren't about fires but about the aftermath of violence.
"Nobody gets to own you," I say, the words coming out more forcefully than I intended.
She looks startled, then something in her expression softens. "No, they don't."
