"Thank you," I said. "For teaching me."
"Everyone needs to eat." He grabbed another pan. "I'll make one for myself. You start on that before it gets cold."
We ate at the counter, standing side by side. The omelet was simple—eggs and cheese—but it tasted better than anything I could remember eating.
Maybe because I'd made it myself.
"You really only have salt," I said between bites.
"What?"
"In your spice cabinet. I looked. There's only salt."
"What else do you need?"
I set down my fork. "Pepper? Garlic? Oregano? Paprika? Anything?"
"I don't know what to do with most of those."
"You put them in food. To make it taste like something."
"Salt makes food taste like something."
"Salt makes food taste like salt." I gestured at my omelet. "This is good. But imagine if we had herbs. Or spices. Or literally any other flavor."
He shrugged. "I mostly don't cook. Protein bars. Sandwiches. Sometimes I heat up soup."
"That's not cooking. That's survival."
"Same thing."
"It's absolutely not the same thing." I shook my head. "How have you lived like this?"
"Efficiently."
"Sadly. You've lived sadly."
Something flickered across his face—not offense, exactly. More like surprise that someone would care enough to criticize his eating habits.
"You'll need to eat while you're here," he said, changing the subject. "Might as well learn."
Practical. Direct. No sentiment.
I was starting to understand that this was just how Vance operated.
After dinner, I washed the dishes while Vance showered. The routine felt strange—domestic in a way I'd never experienced. At home, dishes disappeared into the kitchen and came back clean. I'd never thought about the process in between.
Now I stood at the sink, hands in warm soapy water, scrubbing egg residue off a pan, and felt absurdly proud of myself.
When Vance emerged from the bathroom, he was wearing sweatpants and a faded t-shirt, his hair damp. He looked different like this—less guarded, maybe. More human.
He settled onto the couch and picked up the remote—now neatly placed on the coffee table instead of buried under mail.
"You watch TV?"
The question caught me off guard. "I... yes? Sometimes?"
"What do you watch?"
