“Good?” She asked.
“The best I’ve ever had,” I muttered around a mouthful. And it wasn’t a lie. “Aren’t you going to eat?”
“Already did. Wasn’t sure if you were going to come back inside or sneak off.”
“Heck of a dish on a whim.” I was shoveling the food into my mouth like a hyena. “Not that I’m complaining.” A string of cheese dripped off my chin.
She smiled at my vigor, then said, “When I cook, I make big batches to feed myself through the week. Lasagna freezes well.”
“You cook often?”
“Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays.” Because of course she had a cooking schedule.
“Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, Sundays,” I repeated. “I’ll mark my calendar.”
She looked down at the plate in front of me that was already half-empty. “Might need to add a few days then.” She winked.
“What else do you like to cook?”
“Italian food, mostly. It’s not all cheese and sauce you know.”
“Olives.” I wrinkled my nose.
“The man doesn’t like olives. Note to self.”
I wiped my mouth and sat back. “Italian because… your roots?”
“Yes.” She briefly looked down. “The only roots I know. I know my grandparents on one side were Italian.”
“And you’ve never been?”
“No. It’s on the bucket list, though.” She gave a small shrug and waved a hand in the air like it didn’t matter—but I caught the flicker of something wistful in her eyes. Longing, maybe. A hunger for more than just travel.
“Anyway. Eat.”
We slipped into an easy rhythm after that, conversation flowing with the kind of comfort that made it hard to believe I’d ever wanted to push her away. I polished off the first serving, then a second—something in the way she watched me eat made it taste even better. Like it mattered to her that I was enjoying it. Like she needed to take care of someone and I’d somehow been voted in.
“Thank you,” I said, setting my fork down and meeting her gaze across the table. “I feel better. Like a million bucks, actually.”
“Good.” Her eyes were soft, steady. “You’re welcome.”
I started to rise and gather my dishes, but she beat me to it, standing quickly and reaching for my plate.
“No,” I said, my voice firmer than intended. “I’ll do it.”
Her hand stilled mid-air. Surprise flickered in her expression.
Her hand dropped slowly to her side as I picked up my plate and glass and carried them to the sink. I could feel hereyes on my back—curious, maybe a little affected—as I rolled up my sleeves and ran the water.
The warmth of the soap, the quiet clink of the dishes in the basin, the feel of being in her space—it grounded me. Domestic, simple,normal. But it wasn’t just about the plates. I needed to give something back. To do something small for her, because she'd already done too much for me tonight, and I was starting to feel the shift. The imbalance. The pull.
I washed them slowly, carefully, as if handling something delicate. And maybe I was. Because somewhere behind me, Rose Floris stood barefoot and silent, and I could feel her watching me like she didn’t know what to do with the man standing in her kitchen.
Truth was, I didn’t either.
“Thank you for everything you’ve done around here,” she said, her voice quieter now. “To be honest, I’m not sure I would’ve stayed tonight if it weren’t for the lights outside.”
I paused, dried my hands on the towel, and turned. “Because that’s all it takes? A few floodlights to make you feel safe?”
