Me: I’m leaving. Thanks.
I hit send before I could overthink it.
He saw the message. His hand twitched, as if he almost reached out, but then he stopped himself. His fingers curled into a loose fist, knuckles whitening for a second before he let go.
I slipped on my shoes in silence, heart thudding too loud in my chest.
Then, his voice broke through the quiet.
“Uh…” he started, rubbing the back of his neck. “Dinner.”
I froze, hand on the doorknob.
He cleared his throat. “Can you—cook?” A beat. “I can.”
It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t planned. It came out rushed and awkward, like the words fought him on the way out.
I turned around, my gaze meeting his. He was standing by the couch now, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes darting anywhere but me. His hair was falling down past his eyes, andhis hoodie sleeves were rolled up just enough to show the veins along his forearms.
He looked… normal. Nervous, even.
Like a boy asking a girl to stay for dinner, not a man trying to make up for breaking her.
My chest tightened.
Me: You don’t have to.
His jaw flexed, as if he were swallowing words that wanted to come out. “Maybe not,” he muttered, voice low. “But I want to.”
I blinked.
And for some reason, I didn’t leave right away.
My hand slipped from the doorknob, phone still in my palm, as he stepped toward the kitchen, hesitant, careful, waiting for me to follow.
I still stood by the door, clutching my phone, watching him fumble with a pan. He set it down, looked at me, then back at the counter again.
And then, under his breath but loud enough for me to hear, he said, “Better than hurting. Or buying.”
He paused, grabbed a wooden spoon, and twirled it between his fingers as if it were something to do with his hands.
“Or… doing dishes,” he added, tone deadpan.
I blinked, stunned.
Joshua Lockhart, cold, terrifying Joshua, just said something quite funny.
Kind of.
And he didn’t even realise it. That—that almost made me smile.
I decided to stay. I don’t know why, but a part of me also didn’t want to leave yet. Instead, I quietly walked closer, setting my phone down on the counter beside him.
He stood over the stove, sleeves rolled up, hair messy, stirring something that smelled way better than it looked. The overhead light cast a soft glow on him, his face relaxed for once, his movements quiet and careful, as if every sound mattered.
I sat on the counter, just watching.
It was strange seeing him like this: domestic, human. The Joshua who didn’t hide behind silence or coldness, who didn’t carry that heavy shadow around his eyes.
