“You cook?” he asked, his voice low, gravel-rough and frayed at the edges.
“Define ‘cook,’” I muttered, already walking toward the kitchen like I had it together. Like my ribs weren’t aching from trying to hold all the hollow parts of me in place. “There’s not much here, but I’ll figure something out.”
He didn’t say anything for a second, then sighed like today had finally caught up to him and stood, following with slow, heavy steps. He sat at the small table like he had all the time in the world. Like he wasn’t just my dad’s best friend, like maybe hewantedto be here.
I opened cabinets and stared into the abyss of canned food and long-expired groceries. “So… your last meal might be overcooked penne and questionable sauce.”
“I’ve had worse.” There was something almost tender in his voice. “Well. Maybe not worse. But I was definitely drunker.”
I smiled despite myself, and rummaged for a pan like I wasn’t actively panicking. My hands shook as I filled a pot with water and dumped in the rock-hard pasta. Then poured a few cans of mixed beans and passata sauce into another pan. It hissed violently when it hit the hot metal—probably because I’d left the burner too high—and the smell was…not great.
Frozen vegetables were nuked into oblivion in the microwave, turning into something that might once have resembled food but now looked like it had gone through three world wars.
“Smells…” he paused, sniffed. “Ambitious.”
I glared over my shoulder. “It’s gourmet cuisine if you close your eyes and lower your expectations.”
He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Consider them thoroughly lowered.”
By the time I dished up the disaster, my heart was in my throat. I set the bowls down with all the ceremony of a last rite, then slid into the seat across from him and tried not to look like I was watching his every move. My knee bounced under the table and I chewed on my thumb.
He picked up the fork with grim determination and took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. His jaw clenched. He coughed.
“You okay?” I asked, mortified.
“Yeah,” he wheezed. “Just… a, uh, seasoning surprise.”
I barked out a startled laugh, and for a second, the weight in my chest cracked enough to let something else through. “You don’t have to eat it. I think I accidentally seasoned it with a bit of everything I could find.”
Anthony grinned through it, voice hoarse. “No, no. I’m good. It’s got…texture.” My confusion must have shown on my face because his lips twitched. “And…ah, character.”
“That’s what you say when food tastes like shit.”
We both snorted at the same time. The smile we shared was crooked and tired. But real. And that scared the hell out of me. I leaned back in my chair, relaxing for the first time all day, and he did too, his posture softening like he hadn’t realized how tightly wound he’d been.
“Maybe some cheese would be a good idea?”
“Umm…” I pushed out of my seat and searched the fridge. “Here.” I handed him the hard dried lump of cheddar.
“Got a grater? I don’t fancy breaking my teeth,” he taunted.
“Sure?”
He ate more than he had to—out of politeness or penance, I wasn’t sure—and I just pushed food around my plate, pretendingto eat. The silence between us grew soft, not sharp. Easier to sit in than to fill.
“So this is domestic life with you?” he asked eventually, voice lighter than before.
“Only on existential-crisis days,” I said. “On normal days, I burn toast and pretend it's intentional.”
Anthony chuckled, low and rough. Then his tone shifted. Quieter. “Some of the best nights I’ve ever had started with terrible food and ended with…” he trailed off.
I tilted my head. “Ended with what?”
His eyes lifted to mine, and I felt the pause like a held breath. “Something I didn’t know I needed.”
My heart stuttered. I looked down, afraid of what might happen if I didn’t. The tension was a live wire between us—never touched, never crossed, butthere. For the first time, I felt the shift happening, quiet but undeniable.
“You don’t have to keep doing this,” I whispered. “Showing up. Taking care of me.”
