Alex:Time is ticking,
Don’t keep the man waiting.
I send the message and flip the phone face down. Keeping my focus back on making the sauce. He’ll come, I know he will.Exactly fifteen minutes later, just as I finish plating the dishes, I hear the elevator ding open and close, and his soft footsteps entering the living room. I think the scent of the dinner is what gave him the notion that I was in the kitchen.
And just as he sees me sitting on one of the counter stools, he halts. His lean frame tensed like a rabbit caught in a hunter’s gaze. His blonde curls are ruffled, as if he’s been running a hand through them all evening, and there’s a faint crease between his brows. He looks exhausted—dark circles under brown eyes, shoulders slightly hunched—but somehow, even in his weariness, he’s still beautiful.
I don’t say anything at first. But watch him.
Then, slowly, he steps forward, the hesitant sound of his sneakers barely making a noise against the polished marble floor. He lowers himself onto the stool, keeping his posture tight, like he’s preparing for something.
He pulls his book out of his hoodie pocket and starts scribbling.
Okay, well, I guess he’s going back to writing, a little part of me is disappointed because I craved to hear his voice.
He slides the note towards me, and I glance at it
You brought me here for dinner?
“You know why I brought you here,” I reply evenly, my eyes going back to his. “But you also need to eat.”
His eyes flare with something unreadable before he exhales sharply, picking up the pen again.
You can’t just do things like this. You can’t tell me to get in a car with no explanation.
I arch a brow. “You got in, though.”
His lips press into a thin line, fingers tightening around the pen. I push the plate of food closer to him, watching the slight twitch in his jaw. He doesn’t move to eat. Instead, he reaches for the notebook again, but I stop him before he can write anything.
“Eat, Lucas.” My voice drops an octave, leaving no room for argument.
He exhales sharply, hesitates for a second longer, then finally picks up the fork. I watch as he takes a slow bite, chewing carefully. His posture is still stiff, but the longer he eats, the more the tension seems to drain from his shoulders.
I enjoy cooking for him, watching him eat, and seeing how peaceful and full of life he becomes whenever he eats. I had also made sure to put more dishes on his plate than mine.
I pick up my own fork, taking a bite of the steak, and lean back slightly in my chair. I sit close enough that I can feel his presence beside me, hear the slight hitch in his breath whenever I move. The air between us is thick with something unspoken. We eat in silence, the quiet stretches, but I don’t mind. I know he needs it.
After a while, he stops eating, and his eyes meet mine, he opens his mouth to say something, and I give him an encouraging look.
“I can’t quit my job just to have the time to teach you ASL,” he finally says slowly, voice quiet.
Just hearing his voice again almost made me smile.
“Do you love your job?” I ask, folding my arms. The question takes him by surprise, and he blinks twice. I arch my brow, waiting for a reply.
“It’s not like I hate… the job,” he replies nervously, looking away. “It pays my bills… and it was hard to get a job that accepts a deaf and non-verbal person.”
He says this like he’s embarrassed by it, and I hate how it deflects his mood.
“How many times a week do you go to college?” I ask, diverting from the conversation, he looks back at me this time, takes his pen and paper, and starts scribbling. He’s probablygone mute due to the embarrassment he must have felt. I clench my teeth.
I go to college five days a week. I have morning classes from Monday to Friday, except Thursday…I only have evening classes on Thursdays.
“And how many hours do you work?” I ask, “What’s your work schedule?”
His brows draw together, giving me a stubborn look, but I don’t back down. He sighs, then scribbles.
I work from 2 pm to 8 pm, Monday to Wednesday/Friday, and from 8 am to 2 pm on Thursdays. On weekends, I work for 7 hours as a housekeeper in a retirement home.
