"Using my own words against me."
"Seemed appropriate."
The tension eases slightly. We drink our coffee. The apartment makes the small sounds of a building settling in for the evening.
"I should make dinner," Thatcher says eventually.
"I can help."
"You said you can’t cook."
"I can follow instructions. That's basically cooking."
He actually smiles at that. "Come on. I'll teach you how to not burn water."
We work in his kitchen—him leading, me following instructions with varying degrees of success. He's patient when I ask questions, doesn't hover when I chop vegetables. It's companionable in a way I didn't expect.
"Not bad," he says when I manage to sauté garlic without burning it. "You might be trainable after all."
"High praise from the efficiency expert."
"I'm not an efficiency expert."
"You reorganized my kitchen in under five minutes. You're definitely an efficiency expert."
"That's just practical."
"That's obsessive." I add tomatoes to the pan like he showed me. "But useful, so I'll allow it."
We eat at his small dining table. The food is good—simple a steak, salad, bread. Normal domestic routine that shouldn't feel as natural as it does.
"Thank you," I say. "For teaching me. For being patient."
"You're a quick learner."
"When properly motivated." I take another bite. "And I'm very motivated to not burn down your kitchen."
"Appreciated."
After dinner we clean up together. He washes, I dry. The silence is comfortable now, the earlier tension mostly dissolved.
Evening stretches toward night. I settle on his couch with a book. Thatcher reviews files on his laptop at the table. Normal evening routine except we're hyper-aware of each other in the small space.
Eventually exhaustion wins. "I'm going to bed," I say.
"I'll be there soon."
I head to the bedroom—his bedroom, our bedroom now, apparently—and change into sleep clothes. Brush my teeth in the ensuite. Slide under covers that smell like his detergent.
This is fine. We're adults. We can share space.
I'm almost asleep when the bedroom door opens. Thatcher moves quietly, but I hear him anyway. The bathroom light flicks on. Water runs. He emerges in sweatpants and a T-shirt, moves to the other side of the bed.
"You still awake?" he asks quietly.
"Yeah."
"This okay?"
