"You're lying."
A clatter. Metal against ceramic. A bowl, probably. Something scrapes. A drawer opens, closes. The sounds are ordinary. Domestic. The kind of sounds that don't belong in my space.
But they don't grate the way I expected them to.
"I bet you're cooking something right now, aren't you?" Jess says. "Even when you're not getting paid to cook, you're still cooking."
Lily laughs. The sound is easy, unguarded. "You know me too well."
"So? What is it?"
"My famous banana bread."
A pause. Then Jess's voice, sharper now. "Lily, why?"
"I don't know anything about the owner," Lily says. There's a clatter of something metallic. A whisk against a bowl, maybe. "But I was told they needed to rest. I'm assuming they're coming back from a long trip or something. There's nothing better than coming home to fresh-baked goods, right?"
I sit very still.
She's making food. For me. For someone she doesn't know.
No one does things like that. Not in my world. Not without an angle. Not without wanting something in return.
But the way she says it, casual, matter-of-fact, there's no calculation in her tone. No hidden agenda. Just a woman making banana bread because she thinks it might be a nice thing to come home to.
"You're too nice," Jess says.
"Or just practical. Happy clients tip better."
"Come meet me at the bar when you're done. Just one drink."
"I can't. I need to pack when I get home. I have to be out by the end of the month, and I still need to find storage and a place I can actually afford. Plus, I start my shift at the grocery store at seven a.m."
"Lily—"
"I'll see you this weekend. I promise. Bye! Have fun!"
A beep. The call ends.
The kitchen goes quiet except for the soft sounds of movement. A spoon scraping against a bowl. Rhythmic. Steady. The oven door opens with a metallic creak. The rack slides out, then back in. She closes the door with a soft thunk.
And then she starts humming.
Low. Unconscious. A melody I don't recognize. It drifts through the apartment like something tangible, filling the space in a way silence never does.
My sister used to hum.
The thought surfaces before I can stop it. I shove it down. Hard.
I sit in the dark with a gun on my lap and listen to a stranger hum in my kitchen.
The agitation I started with is still there. But quieter now. Muted beneath the sound of her moving through my space like she belongs here.
She doesn't.
But the wrongness of it isn't sharp. It's not an intrusion. It's something else. Something I don't have a name for.
She keeps humming. Keeps moving. Water runs in the sink. The sound is steady, punctuated by the soft clink of dishes being rinsed and set aside. She's cleaning up. Putting things back the way she found them.
