“Yeah.”
His brow furrows slightly. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
He studies me for a beat, like he’s trying to figure out the catch. Like there has to be one.
Then he exhales and rubs the back of his neck. “Smells good.”
Relief moves through me so fast it almost makes me dizzy.
“Go shower,” I say softly. “I’ll plate it.”
He hesitates.
Like he’s not used to being told what to do in his own house. Or not used to someone taking care of him.
Then he gives a single nod and disappears up the stairs.
I move quickly, plating the pasta with care, arranging the roasted vegetables so they look intentional instead of just thrown on the side. I pour two glasses of wine.
When he comes back, hair damp, clean T-shirt and sweatpants on, he looks slightly more human.
He slows when he sees the table.
“You did all this?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He pulls out a chair and sits. Not rushed. Almost cautious.
I take the seat across from him.
For a second, neither of us moves.
Then he picks up his fork and takes a bite.
He chews. Swallows.
“It’s good,” he says.
The words are simple.
But his shoulders loosen just a fraction.
“Thank you,” I reply softly.
We eat in silence for a minute.
“You cook often?” he asks.
“Yeah. I like it.”
He nods. “I don’t.”
“I figured.”
That earns me the faintest twitch of his mouth. That almost-smile again.
