We walk the few blocks in silence, the sun dipping low between buildings, staining the sky in sherbet streaks of pink and orange. Her apartment’s tucked above a little vintage bookshop with a dead neon sign.
The old wooden stairs creak when we climb them, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
I do, I notice everything.
“You hungry?” I ask once we’re inside.
Amelia kicks off her boots near the door and gives me a look like I’ve asked the dumbest question on the planet. “Starving.”
Without waiting, I pull out my phone from my pocket and open Instacart.
She watches me with narrowed eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Fixing that,” I say, nodding toward the empty fridge she opened earlier when she went to grab water. “Your fridge is damn near empty.”
Amelia snorts but doesn’t argue as she walks into the bathroom.
I order everything, okay, not everything.
Ground beef, beans, jalapeños, tomato paste, onions, and cornbread mix. I could make it from scratch, but I’m not here to show off, not right now anyway.
I set my phone down and exhale through my nose, surveying her apartment.
Every part of me itches to fix it, to align everything, wipe it down, and put it back where it belongs.
I like control; ever since my mama died, it’s something I crave. When I’m anxious, order feels like it digs its claws into my skin.
And right now, Amelia’s cozy type of chaos feels like it’s crawling over me.
So I start cleaning like a psycho.
The coffee table is a war zone of receipts, ink caps, and cans of cold brew. I sort them into piles, toss out what’s trash, and stack what looks important. I rinse three coffee mugs from the counter and load the dishwasher. Her fridge is a wasteland—one half-full bottle of milk, a rotting lemon, and two questionable eggs.
Her spice rack makes my eye twitch, so I alphabetize it quietly and methodically—chili powder, cinnamon, and coriander.
It satisfies the itch.
The groceries arrive ten minutes later, and I start cooking like I’ve done this a thousand times.
Because, duh, I have.
The chili starts on the stove. The beef begins to brown, the garlic sizzles in the pan, and the onion softens and melts down. I dice the jalapeños small, just like Mama used to, so the heat sneaks up on you slowly. Next, add the beans, followed by the tomato paste, cumin, and a splash of beef broth. I stir, taste, and adjust, knowing exactly when it’s perfect.
I put the cornbread in the oven, the aroma of sweet honey glaze already permeating the air. Taking one last look around the kitchen, I wipe down the counters with a damp cloth, catching every last bit of flour and chili splatter because I can’t stand leaving a mess.
Changing into black sweatpants once I’m done, and tossing my shirt in my bag, I throw myself on the couch and turn the TV on, which was paused onScream.
Of courseeeee.
Rex glares at me from the corner of the room and hisses at me.
“Relax, dude,” I tell him, propping my arm behind my head.
The bathroom door creaks open.
Amelia steps out, steam drifting behind her. Her long black hair’s damp and curling at the ends. She’s barefoot, wrapped in an oversized dark gray T-shirt full of worn-in holes, the collar slouching off her shoulder, and I swear I forget how to breathe.
She blinks, analyzing the room as her brows lift slightly.
