"Now the pan," he said. "Cast iron or stainless?"
I glanced at my pan as if I'd never seen it before. "Stainless, I think. I don't actually know."
"Stainless." He ran hot water and added a small amount of soap. "Good thing—cast iron requires different care. No soap, just hot water and a scrub brush. You want to clean this while it's still warm from cooking. Cold food is harder to remove."
"You learned all this in a few days?"
"Your laptop has WiFi." He scrubbed the pan, muscles in his forearms flexing. "I hope you don't mind. I found some cooking tutorials and cleaning guides. Figured I should learn how to take care of myself."
"You don't have to earn your place here."
His hands stilled on the pan. "I know. But I want to."
There was something in his voice that made me really look at him instead of the careful avoidance I'd practiced since he showed up in my apartment wearing my clothes.
He was beautiful.
Not in the polished way he had been at the wedding. Not the perfectly groomed heir in a custom tuxedo. This was different. Flour on his cheek, water spots on his shirt, hair falling across his forehead, and he was beautiful in a way that made my chest ache.
Don't.
I stepped back, creating distance. "I should probably take a shower. Long day."
"Of course." He turned back to the dishes, and if he noticed me pulling away, he didn't show it. "I'll finish these."
I retreated to the bathroom and stood under water hot enough to hurt, trying not to think about the man in my kitchen. The man who folded napkins, bought plants, and looked at me like I'd hung the moon just because I'd given him a place to sleep.
This was a terrible idea.
All of it. Him staying here. Me wanting him to stay. The way my heart raced every time he smiled.
Terrible, terrible idea.
I turned the water colder, trying to freeze the feeling out of my chest.
When I emerged, Tobias was curled on the couch with one of my paperbacks.
He looked up when I entered, and something in his expression softened.
"Better?"
"Fine." I grabbed a beer from the fridge. "What are you reading?"
"This one." He held up the battered cover of The Hunt for Red October. "I found it on your shelf. I hope you don't mind."
"I don't mind." I settled on the opposite end of the couch, leaving space between us. "That's a good one."
"It's very... technical."
"You don't like technical?"
"I'm not sure yet. That's the strange part." He turned the book over in his hands, examining the worn cover. "At home, we had a library. Thousands of books, first editions, rare collections. I could have read anything I wanted. But I always reached for what I thought I should read. Business books. Industry journals. Things that would make me useful at dinner conversations." He smiled, but it was thin. "No one told me to. I just assumed that was expected."
"And now?"
"Now I'm reading about Soviet submarines and nuclear standoffs, and I have no idea if I'll like it." He looked up at me, something almost curious in his expression. "But I get to find out. That's the point, isn't it?"
"Yeah." My voice came out rougher than I intended. "That's the point."
