The stack of books on the side table.
The throw I always forget to fold.
Me.
“Smells good in here,” he says.
“I hope so,” I reply. “I’ve already committed.”
That earns a small sound of amusement.
When the food’s ready, I plate it and nod toward the table.
“Okay.”
He comes over, pours the wine—careful, unhurried—and sets my glass down before his. Another small step. Another choice.
I sit across from him. He looks at the plate for a second.
“What if I was allergic to the pork loin,” he asks mildly. “Or the green beans. Or the mashed potatoes.”
I pause.
“Most importantly,” he adds, “gravy.”
I look at him. Smirk.
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He picks up his fork.
That moment—light, familiar—settles something low in my chest.
We eat.
Conversation comes easily at first. Work things. Alex’s questionable restaurant recommendations. A comment about how my building’s elevator is still possessed.
Normal.
Halfway through, I set my fork down.
“We need to talk,” I say.
He doesn’t tense. He doesn’t sigh. He simply sets his fork down too and leans back slightly, attention fully on me.
“Okay.”
I take a breath.
“Alex and Mark came by,” I say. “They filled in some gaps for me.”
His jaw tightens once. “They shouldn't have bothered you.”
I ignore that.
