He glances up from the pan, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Hey, handsome.”
His tone is playful, teasing in that way only Tyler can pull off.
I roll my eyes, but a small smile sneaks through anyway. He calls everyone handsome, but somehow, with him, it never feels cheap.
“Hi,” I sign, dragging my hands through the air more sluggishly than intentional. "What’s for dinner? I’m starving.”
“Fried rice with eggs and veggies,” he replies, tossing cabbage into the pan with a flourish that suggests he’s performing for an invisible audience. “Go shower. You smell like coffee and look like regret. Dinner will be ready soon.”
I huff, too drained to form a comeback, and shuffle down the narrow hall. My room waits at the end, small but tidy, just enough space for a bed, a desk, a wardrobe, and the little windowcracked open to let in cool evening air. It isn’t much, but it’s mine. Neat. Steady. A pocket of order in a messy life.
I sink onto the bed, tugging out my hearing aids and placing them in their charger. The world cuts out instantly, silence pressing down on me, thick and absolute. Sometimes it’s unbearable. Tonight, it’s a relief.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it free, glance at the screen—Mom.
My chest tightens. Without hesitation, I decline the call and toss the phone onto the bed. I don’t have the energy for that tonight. For her.
The shower is lukewarm at best, but it does the job, washing away sweat, tension, and the stale smell of coffee that clings to my clothes and skin. I try not to think of him, the man with the eyes like ice and the voice that still coils in my chest. But the memory lingers, unwelcome and sharp.
When I step out, hair damp and skin flushed, I slip into an old V-neck polo and shorts. They hang loose on me, soft with age. I feel lighter, if only by degrees.
The living room now smells like fried rice. Tyler has already set two bowls and a pair of water bottles on the small coffee table. Our couch—the secondhand one we found on Facebook Marketplace—is sunken in the middle, but it’s still the most comfortable spot in the apartment. He’s already sprawled across half of it, patting the cushion beside him with a grin.
I sink down, giving him a look that says You’re insufferable. He only grins wider.
I tap my ear and shake my head, signaling that my hearing aids are charging. He nods in understanding, as it’s second nature to him now.
We eat in silence, not awkward silence, but the kind that comes from years of knowing each other’s rhythms.
Finally, he leans back and signs with exaggerated theatrics: “Well? What do you think of my masterpiece?” His expression is smug enough to rival a Michelin-starred chef.
I smirk, raising an eyebrow.“Leftover rice and eggs?”
He glares dramatically, then shovels a massive spoonful into his mouth.
“Hey,”he exclaims, signing sloppily with one hand.“It’s Classic. Timeless. Genius.”
I roll my eyes, but the corner of my mouth tilts up.
He swallows, leaning closer, conspiratorial. “Also…I may or may not have stolen half the ingredients from the school kitchen.”
I let out a breath that could almost be a laugh. Warmth creeps into my chest, steadying me in a way nothing else today has managed. Tyler has always had that effect on me.
He works as a chef in Blackwood University’s dining hall and always seems to have a few connections there. Honestly, he’s the reason I even have my job at the café. Without him, I’d still be scrambling.
I twist open my water bottle and take a sip, watching as he wipes his hands on his sweatpants before signing with a glint in his eyes: “So, I’ve got something for you.”
I raise a brow. “If this is another one of your—”
He cuts me off with wild hand gestures, nearly dropping his fork.“God, no. No more of that. I’ve officially retired from setting you up on dates.” His exaggerated seriousness makes my lips twitch.“This is work-related.”
I keep chewing, narrowing my eyes, waiting for the catch.
“The Blackwood University art exhibition and auction is coming up this weekend,” he signs to me, and I give him a nod.
Of course, I’ve heard of it. Everyone has. An elite playground for the university’s wealthiest art students to flaunt their work,where only the rich and their families are invited. Paintings sell for more than I’ll probably see in a lifetime.
“Okay… and what does that have to do with me?” I ask
