“I mean, what’s wrong withyou? You’re being so...quiet-ish, and you keep ‘cleaning,’ but you’re really just shoving things into the couch cushions, and—” He glanced at the plate again. “—this cannot legally be called cooking.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I said, heat crawling up my neck. “I’m just...your mom died, and I know I can be...toomuch. I thought if I dialed down the Lilly, it would help you deal with your imaginary feelings or whatever.”
He stiffened for a second, clearly not expecting that. “Well, that was your first mistake.”
“Which part?”
“The part where you assumed that being yourself was ever a problem.”
The flutter in my chest went absolutely feral. Before I could stumble out a reply, he was already standing, stacking plates, dumping the evidence of my crime into the trash. He rolled up his sleeves—forearms, veins, the whole devastating situation—and reached for the pink apron I’d bought for myself, the one I’d worn exactlyonce, and was probably banned from ever wearing again. He slipped it over his head and tied it behind his back like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Can I at least help?” I asked, hovering beside him uselessly.
He snorted as he grabbed a knife and started chopping with terrifying competence. “God, no. Can you just...sit there and tell me about whatever pointless celebrity breakup just happened, or what that nurse you hate—Tina, right?—said to Dr. Chen after he booted her from the OR?”
My eyes brightened. My spine straightened. My entire soul perked.
“Oh,” I said, sliding into the chair like a queen reclaiming her throne. “I mean, if youinsist.”
His mouth twitched, just barely.
So I talked while he cooked. About Tina and Dr. Chen and celebrity breakups and every other inconsequential thing my brain could scrounge up. I filled the air the way I always did—words as bubble wrap, cushioning whatever might hurt if we looked at it too closely. But a part of me wasn’t fully in the kitchen. A portion of my mind was still back there—two minutes ago, exactly—replaying the moment he’d implied (no,stated, plain and simple) that the thing everyone had always made me feel was a problem, a flaw, a caution label taped to my forehead—mypersonality—wasn’t a problem at all.
I was still determined to make him feel better. Which was why—against every rational instinct, every allergy warning label, and the tiny, sensible voice in my head that had begged me not to—I made an impulsive and probably extremely stupid purchase.
The apartment door swung open, and I stepped inside with a fuzzy gray cat cradled in my arms like a sack of poorly contained chaos.
“Welcome home,” I announced.
The cat hissed.
“The feeling’s mutual, furball.” I kicked the door shut with my foot and raised my voice. “Khalifa?”
A minute later, he stepped into the hallway, hair slightly rumpled, confusion already forming between his brows. The cat wriggled out of my arms, hit the floor running, and skidded straight to him, immediately weaving around his legs like he was her long lost owner. She rubbed her face against his ankle. Purred.Posed.
“Unbelievable,” I scoffed.
He froze, then slowly crouched down. The cat leaned into his hand as he reached out, tail flicking in clear delight. “Who,” he asked carefully, “is this?”
“That’s your cat, but I already named her because there is no universe in which I live with a creature named Trash, or Rubbish, or Sewage. Her name is Steve.”
“Steve,” he repeated warily.
“Yup. I refuse to share my home with another woman. Calling her Steve helps me forget she has opinions.”
“You’re allergic.”
“I am allergic,” I agreed cheerfully, shaking the little antihistamines bottle like a maraca. “But I am also prepared.”
He let out a short laugh, still scratching the cat’s chin as she melted dramatically onto the floor. “No way, Lillian.”
Except he said it while tickling her stomach, and she flopped onto her back. My mouth curved before I could stop it. “You’re already obsessed.”
“I am not obsessed,” he said, very seriously, while Steve pawed at his hand and he let her.
I snorted.
The cat chose that exact moment to turn her head and hiss at me again.
