I change direction and find her at the stove, poking at something in a pan with a wooden spoon. She's wearing one of the new blouses from the boutique and jeans that actually fit her, and her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail. The cat sits on the counter beside her, watching her cook with the focused intensity of a predator tracking prey.
She glances up when I enter. "You smell like a bonfire."
"Warehouse fire."
Her eyes widen. "Are you hurt?"
The question catches me off guard. Not the words—the tone. Concern. Actual concern, not polite inquiry.
"No. I wasn't inside."
She nods and turns back to the stove. "I'm making eggs. They're probably terrible."
I move closer and peer into the pan. The eggs are scrambled, overcooked, and stuck to the bottom. "They look fine."
She stirs them with more force than necessary. "I can't cook. Never learned."
"You're doing a great job.”
She snorts. "Liar."
I lean against the counter and cross my arms. The cat's tail swishes once, then settles. Saoirse plates the eggs—one for her, one for me—and slides mine across the counter.
I take a bite. They're rubbery and oversalted, and I eat them without complaint.
She watches me, her expression skeptical. "You don't have to eat them."
"I'm eating them."
"You're being polite."
"I don't do polite."
Her lips twitch. Almost a smile. "You're doing it right now."
I set the fork down and hold her gaze. "If I didn't want to eat your eggs, I wouldn't eat them. I want to eat them."
She blinks. Confusion crosses her face, then something else. She looks away and picks up her own fork.
We eat in silence. The cat jumps down from the counter and winds around Saoirse's ankles, purring loud enough to hear across the room.
"You’ve been feeding her," I say.
"You're the one who keeps buying cat food."
"She's a stray."
"She'syourcat."
"I don't have a cat."
"You named her."
I pause mid-bite. "I didn't name her."
"What do you call her?"
"Cat."
