I set the bag on the counter, pull out the box, and nudge it toward her. She follows the motion with her eyes, reading the label. Her mouth flinches. Not fear. Not drama. Just a small, focused nod.
“Thanks,” she says.
She turns, reaches for a glass, and fills it at the sink. Rips open the foil. Pill on the tongue. Swallow. The whole thing takes five seconds and feels like a grenade that doesn’t go off.
“Do you want water too?” she asks, already moving to refill.
“No.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. I clear it.
“Okay.” She slides the glass aside, then glances into the bag. Her eyes widen. “Anton… how many did you buy?”
“As many as they had.”
She bites down on a laugh and loses, a small burst that breaks against her teeth.
“You bought the whole shelf?”
“You said we needed it.” I’m aware it sounds stupid the second I say it. I don’t take it back.
She presses her lips together, a smile leaking anyway.
“That’s one way to be supportive.”
Gordo meows like he agrees. I glare at him. He blinks, unbothered, and sits heavier, a furry doorstop.
She turns back to the stove, humming under her breath. Steam curls up around her face, softening the edges, making the whole kitchen feel smaller, warmer.
“Sit,” she says over her shoulder. “Food’s ready soon.”
I stay standing. “What are you doing?”
She glances back, tilts her head at me like I’m the slow one.
“Cooking. What do you think I’m doing?”
Before I can answer, she forks a twist of pasta, blows on it once, then crosses the space like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Holds it up.
“Here.”
I look at the fork. Then at her. She’s not teasing, not flirting. She just looks… open. Like she honestly thinks this is what people like us do—eat late, laugh a little, maybe pretend the world outside doesn’t exist.
“Eat,” she urges, lifting it closer.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But I do.
The bite is hot, salty, rich. Real food. Good food. My chest tightens because it shouldn’t matter—but it does.
Her face lights up when she sees me chew. “See? Not poison.”
I hand the fork back, jaw hard. “Don’t do that again.”
Her smile falters, confusion sliding in. “Don’t… feed you?”
“You’re not here to play house,” I say. My voice comes out colder than I mean, but I let it stand.
The air shifts. She sets the fork down and turns back to the stove, shoulders tighter now. Chatty warmth gone, like I snuffed it out with one strike.
“I…” she says, and her voice catches in a way I don’t like. She looks down at the stove, at the pasta she’s stirring, like maybe it’ll explain things for her. Her shoulders hunch, the line of her back closing off. “I wasn’t playing… house.”
