The next pancake fares no better, landing in a half-folded heap. Arthur stares at it as if personally betrayed, and I can't contain my giggles.
"Here," I say, setting down my mug and moving toward the stove. "Let me help before you burn down this apartment. That would be embarrassing for everyone involved."
He steps aside, handing me the spatula with mock solemnity. "By all means."
I take his place at the stove, aware of his presence just behind me. He's tall enough that I can feel the warmth of him without him touching me. It's not threatening, just the opposite actually.
His proximity feels like a shield between me and everything I left behind.
"The trick is patience," I explain, watching the batter bubble slightly before sliding the spatula underneath and flipping it in one smooth motion. The pancake lands perfectly, golden side up. "See?"
"Impressive," he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
I finish cooking the pancakes while he sets plates and forks on the small table.
When we sit down to eat, I realize I'm still wearing his clothes, my hair is a mess, and I have no makeup on. A week ago, even yesterday, I would have been mortified to be seen this way. Now, it feels like freedom.
"These are good," Arthur says, pouring maple syrup over his stack. "Where'd you learn to cook?"
"My grandmother," I answer, cutting a small piece. "She taught me all the basics. She said everyone should know how to feed themselves and at least one other person."
"That seems fair."
I nod, chewing thoughtfully. "She never went to college, but she was the wisest person I knew." I pause, realizing I've slipped into past tense. "She died my sophomore year of college."
Arthur doesn't offer platitudes or change the subject. He simply nods, acknowledging the loss. "What were you studying?"
"Elementary education," I say, then correct myself. "I mean, that's what I started in. I switched to business after I met Richard. He thought teaching was..." I stop, hearing Richard's voice in my memory:impractical, financially limiting, beneath your potential.
"Was what?" Arthur prompts gently.
I look up at him, seeing genuine curiosity rather than judgment. "He thought it wasn't ambitious enough. That I was settling."
Arthur takes a sip of coffee, considering this. "What did you think?"
The question catches me off guard. In three years with Richard, I can't remember anyone asking whatIthought about my own career.
"I loved it," I admit, the truth settling in my chest like a warm stone. "I loved working with kids, it’s always been something I dreamed of doing. I felt... useful. Important, in a small but real way."
Arthur nods as if this makes perfect sense. "Sounds like a good fit."
A knock at the door interrupts our conversation. Arthur rises, touching my shoulder briefly as he passes. "It's probably Bradley, a friend from the station. He stops by sometimes before shift."
I tense instinctively, my fingers tightening around my fork. Arthur notices.
"It's okay," he says quietly. "No one knows you're here except me."
He opens the door to reveal a man with a firefighter's uniform and a steady presence. He has neatly trimmed dark hair with hints of gray at the temples and observant eyes that take in the scene with practiced efficiency. He holds a brown paper bag that smells tantalizingly of cinnamon.
"Morning, Arthur," he says, his gaze moving between us with measured curiosity. "Didn't know you had company."
"Bradley," Arthur acknowledges, taking one of the cups. "This is Lori. She needed a place to stay last night."
Bradley nods in greeting, his expression neutral but not unfriendly.
Bradley's eyes take in my rumpled appearance and oversized borrowed clothes. His gaze lingers briefly on my left hand, where a pale band of skin marks where my engagement ring used to be. Understanding seems to dawns in his expression, but he doesn't comment. Instead, he sets the paper bag on the table.
"Denise sent these along," he explains, opening the bag to reveal cinnamon rolls. "She's on dispatch today and said you might need the sugar after working late on that truck last night."
