"Sounds nice."
"I thought it was. I thought I was lucky because I never had to worry about those things." He picked up his fork again, turning it between his fingers. "But it wasn't luck. It was control dressed up as convenience. They decided what I ate, what I wore, how my room was arranged. And I never questioned it because I didn't know there was anything to question."
"You were rich. Most people would call that lucky."
"Most people would be wrong." He met my eyes, and there was something fierce in his gaze that I hadn't seen before. "Do you know what it's like to reach twenty-six and realize you've never made a single decision that was actually yours? Not your job, not your home, not the person you were supposed to marry. Everything was decided for you, arranged for you, handled by people who thought they knew better."
I didn't answer. My own life had been the opposite. Nobody decided anything for me because nobody gave a damn what happened to me. No parents to guide me, no staff to arrange things, no money to smooth the way. Every choice I'd ever made was mine by default, because there was nobody else around to make them.
"Today I chose to make pasta," Tobias said. "I chose which pot to use, how to fold the napkins, and where to put the plant. Small things. Probably stupid things. But they were mine."
The tightness in my chest returned, and this time I couldn't pretend it wasn't there.
"The pasta's not stupid," I said. "It's really good."
His smile was brighter this time. Real. "Thank you."
After dinner, I reached for my plate.
"I'll wash them."
"You cooked. I'll clean."
"Do you know how to wash dishes properly?"
I paused, plate in hand, caught off guard by the question. "There's a proper way?"
Tobias's expression was unreadable. For a moment, I thought he would lecture me on dish-washing technique, which would have been both insufferable and somehow not surprising.
"You have to scrub the entire surface, not just the parts that look dirty," he said. "And rinse with hot water, not lukewarm. Dry them before putting them away, or you'll get water spots."
"I've been washing dishes for thirty-four years. I know how."
"Have you been doing it correctly?"
"I've been doing it adequately."
"That's not the same thing."
I set the plate down. "Are you telling me I don't know how to clean my own kitchen?"
"I'm saying there's a difference between clean and adequately rinsed." He stood, collecting his plate with movements that were both elegant and efficient. "You can leave grease residue and wonder why everything tastes vaguely like last week's chicken. Or you can let me show you the proper technique."
"That's never happened."
"Has anyone ever checked?"
I opened my mouth, then closed it. He had a point. Nobody had ever checked my dishes. Nobody had been in my kitchen long enough to notice or care.
"Fine." I handed over my plate. "Show me."
He carried the dishes to the sink, rolling up the sleeves of my Army shirt past his elbows. "First, scrape any remaining foodinto the trash. Then rinse with hot water to soften the grease. Apply soap to the sponge, not directly to the dish."
"Why does it matter where the soap goes?"
"Consistent coverage. If you apply it directly to the dish, you get concentrated soap in some areas and none in others."
I watched him work, standing close enough to see but not so close that we were touching. His hands moved with careful precision, turning each dish under the water, scrubbing in small circles, rinsing thoroughly before setting it in the drying rack.
