"You cleaned my entire apartment. Like, the whole thing. In one afternoon. While I was at work."
The reality of it crashes over me in waves, the fact that he didn't just tidy up a few things or do a quick once-over, but systematically went through every single room, every corner, every surface of this disaster zone that I've been living in for months. My voice comes out smaller than I intended, almost reverential in its disbelief. I lower my hand from my forehead and stare at him, my hazel eyes wide and slightly glassy, trying to match the man standing before me, this massive, intimidatingly neat orc who apparently spent his entire day elbow-deep in my chaos, with the casual way he's describing it, as if he hadn't just performed some kind of domestic miracle.
"I cleaned what I could with the limited supplies available," he corrects, setting the feather duster down on the coffee table with a gentleness that seems at odds with his overall aura of barely contained frustration. "Tomorrow I will purchase proper cleaning materials and address the more significant issues. The bathroom requires a full renovation which I will discuss with the landlord. The kitchen sink is held together with what appears to be hope and expired caulk. Your bedroom door does not close properly because the frame is warped."
I'm still staring at him, my mouth opening and closing like a fish, because I have absolutely no idea how to respond to this. "You... you don't have to, I mean, that's not, you're a roommate, not a maid, you don't have to clean everything?—"
"I am aware of my role," he interrupts. "However, I cannot exist comfortably in disorder. It is not a moral judgment of your lifestyle. It is a fundamental incompatibility between my nervous system and the concept of grime."
He pauses, his gaze sweeping over me with an intensity that makes me suddenly, acutely aware of the paint stains on my overalls and the fact that I definitely smell like espresso and anxiety. "I propose a system. I will maintain the common areas to my standards. Your bedroom and personal workspace remain your domain. In exchange, you will not object to my organizational methods."
"Your organizational methods," I repeat slowly, looking around at the apartment that now resembles a furniture store display, "which apparently include... what, hiring a professional cleaning crew?"
"I am the professional cleaning crew," he says with perfect, deadpan sincerity. "I spent six years managing a nightclub. I have seen things that would break a lesser being's spirit. Your apartment is, comparatively, a minor project."
A slightly hysterical laugh bubbles up before I can stop it, because this is insane, this entire situation is completely insane, I have somehow acquired a seven-foot Orc roommate who pays in ancient gold and deep-cleans apartments as a stress response, and I'm pretty sure I've just stumbled into the premise of either a romance novel or a very elaborate prank show.
"Okay," I hear myself say, my voice coming out slightly strangled. "Okay, yeah, that's—sure. You can clean whatever you want. Go absolutely feral with the Lysol. I'm not going to stop you."
Something that might be satisfaction flickers across his face. "Excellent. I have also prepared dinner. You did not eat adequately today."
"How do you—" I start, then stop, because of course he knows I didn't eat adequately today, he probably has some kind of terrifying Orc sixth sense for detecting human nutritional deficiencies. "You made dinner."
"I made dinner," he confirms, already moving toward the kitchen with that same smooth, purposeful stride. "You own very few ingredients, but I was able to work with what was available. Sit."
It's not a request.
I sit.
4
FAUGH
Iplace the plate in front of her with the same care I would handle a delicate piece of glassware, ensuring the edges align perfectly with the mat I laid down earlier. The pasta is arranged in a neat spiral, the sauce distributed evenly, garnished with the last wilted basil leaf I managed to salvage from her refrigerator's vegetable drawer, which had, upon initial inspection, resembled a crime scene.
She stares at it with an expression of such profound bewilderment that I find myself bracing for impact, as though I have just set a live grenade on the table between us and calmly announced that the pin is missing. Her eyes widen incrementally, her jaw slackens slightly, and for a moment she does not move at all, she simply sits there, fork suspended in mid-air, her gaze locked onto the plate with the intensity of someone who has just witnessed something fundamentally inexplicable. The color in her cheeks has deepened to a shade I can only describe as approaching crimson, and her breathing has become noticeably shallow. I can see the exact moment her eyes begin to glisten, and I find myself running through every possible explanation for this reaction, trying to determine if Ihave somehow miscalculated the temperature of the pasta or misjudged the acidity of the sauce. But no, the plate itself seems to be the source of her distress, or perhaps the simple fact of its existence, of my having provided it, of there being a meal prepared with such deliberate care sitting before her in this moment.
"This is beautiful," she whispers. "Like, genuinely beautiful. I didn't even know I owned plates this nice."
"You do not," I inform her, pulling out the chair across from her and lowering myself into it with careful precision. The furniture in this apartment was clearly designed for humans of average size, which means I am in constant negotiation with structural integrity. "I purchased them this afternoon along with the cleaning supplies. Your previous dishes were unsafe for food consumption."
"You bought dishes," she says softly. She picks up her fork with careful deliberation, still staring at the plate as though she is attempting to commit every detail to memory, the precise spiral of pasta, the even distribution of sauce, the placement of that single salvaged basil leaf. "You bought me dishes and then made me dinner. For me. You actually made dinner."
There is a quality to the way she speaks it that suggests this is not a common occurrence in her life, that meals prepared with this level of care and attention are something foreign enough to warrant this particular brand of amazed disbelief. The realization settles into my chest with an uncomfortable weight.
"I bought us dishes," I correct, gesturing to my own plate, which holds a significantly larger portion because my caloric requirements are roughly triple hers. "And I made dinner because you will not survive on cold brew coffee and what I can only assume was once a bagel."
She laughs, the sound bright and sudden, and something about the way her face transforms when she does it, the way hereyes crinkle at the corners and her whole posture loosens, makes the tight coil of tension I have been carrying since I walked into this apartment ease just slightly.
We eat in companionable silence for several minutes. She takes small, careful bites, savoring each one in a way that suggests she is not accustomed to meals that require actual chewing. The observation settles into the growing catalog of details I am accumulating about her, slotting in next to the fact that she chews her thumbnail when she is stressed, hums off-key when she thinks no one is listening, and has a truly impressive tolerance for chaos that would send most functional adults into a psychological spiral.
"So," she says eventually, twirling her fork through the pasta, "not that I'm complaining, because this is literally the best thing I've eaten in months, but why did you actually answer my ad? Like, the real reason."
I consider the question while cutting my portion into precise, uniform pieces. Honesty has always served me well, even when it makes others uncomfortable. "I needed to leave my previous living situation quickly, and your advertisement specified immediate availability with minimal screening process. The lack of questions was appealing."
Her eyebrows shoot up with such velocity that they nearly disappear into her hairline, and her fork clatters against the rim of her plate with an audible clang. "Are you running from the law?" The question tumbles out in a rush of breathless concern, her entire body going rigid in that peculiar way that suggests her mind has already constructed an elaborate narrative. "Is this a mob thing? Did you have some sort of falling out with dangerous people? Please, for the love of all that is holy, tell me you did not kill someone. Because I really cannot afford to be an accessory after the fact, I have enough problems without adding federal charges to the list."
"I did not kill anyone," I assure her, though I cannot entirely suppress the slight curve at the corner of my mouth because her imagination has clearly spiraled into dramatic territory. "I ended a professional relationship that had become untenable, and remaining in proximity to my former employer would have resulted in violence, though not necessarily fatal violence."
