“I thought,” Tom continues, rubbing the back of his neck, “that my standing with your housemate might still be… fragile. And I wanted to improve it.”
I take the bag.
“You brought my gecko a bribe.”
“Yes,” he says. “A goodwill gesture.”
I set the paper bag down next to the vivarium like it’s not the most surreal peace offering of my adult life.
“Do you want tea,” I ask, because apparently this is who I am now. A woman who responds to emotional upheaval with kettles.
“I would love tea,” he says.
I fill the kettle. Flick the switch. The familiar click feels grounding.
When I head back to the living room, Hadrian shifts. One eye opens. He considers the room. Decides it is not worth full consciousness yet.
Tom watches him with wary respect.
“So,” he says carefully. “Do I… present them. Or do we wait.”
“We wait,” I say. “He hates desperation.”
He nods, takes it in, then smiles. We stand there for a moment, watching each other, careful and quiet.
The kettle boils, mercifully, and I retreat to the kitchen. I make the tea, ditch the bag, then bring the mug back to him. He cups it in both hands, like he’s cold, though it isn’t that kind of cold.
We stand there for a moment, side by side, steam rising between us.
“Rough day,” he says.
“Yes,” I reply. “Yours.”
“Yes,” he agrees.
Silence settles. Not awkward. Just… quiet.
I scoop the cockroaches into Hadrian’s dish. Place it back carefully. Step away.
Hadrian opens both eyes now. Stretches one leg. Very slowly. Like he has all the time in the world.
Tom holds his breath.
Hadrian flicks his tongue. Once. Then again. He leans forward and eats one.
Tom exhales.
“He accepts your bribe,” I say.
He smiles. Small. Real.
“Good,” he says. “I was hoping to start on the rightfoot.”
We sip our tea. And for the first time all day, my shoulders drop.
We speak at the same time.
“I don’t want this to just be—”
