She gave me a look. Curious.
I opened the door to my apartment and stepped aside. She entered slowly, pausing just past the threshold. Her eyes flicked over the floors, the kitchen, the long stretch of windows that let in the skyline. She didn’t speak right away, and she didn’t steptoo far in. She just hovered a moment, taking in the space like she was cataloging every square inch.
I watched her eyebrows lift, just slightly. Not surprise exactly. More like reassessment.
Wide-plank pale oak floors, matte black cabinet pulls, deep charcoal cabinetry, and white counters that caught the morning light in clean lines. This place had been designed down to the air. And even though I didn’t decorate it with anyone else in mind, I suddenly felt like it was on display.
"Not what you were expecting?" I said lightly.
She turned her head toward me, half-smiling. "Fewer pizza boxes than anticipated. Definitely more organized."
I nodded and stepped past her, gesturing as I went. "Primary suite’s down that wing," I said, motioning left. "Guest rooms are on the right. The split layout gives you a little separation if you need it."
She followed me slowly, her heels soft against the hardwood, and handed me my package back.
It hit me then how rare this was. Letting someone into the space where I shut the world out. Where I cooked, read, and rewatched old game tapes when I couldn’t sleep.
And now she was here. Not even three feet away.
She wandered a few steps deeper, trailing her fingers lightly along the edge of the island. Her gaze landed on the pot rack overhead, then drifted to the counter, where a fermentation jar sat tucked against the wall beside a stack of well-worn cookbooks.
"Arturo wasn’t kidding about the risotto setup," she said, her voice lighter now.
I laughed. "He tends to oversell. But yeah, I cook."
She turned toward the shelves. "These are all food books?"
"Most of them." I stepped closer, setting the package down near the sink. "Some chefs’ memoirs. A couple of deep dives into technique."
Her hand hovered near a copper skillet on the wall. "This is serious. Who taught you?"
There it was. The question I’d hoped we’d dodge.
My throat tightened.
I leaned against the counter and folded my arms. "Picked it up a while back. Needed something to focus on." It was the simplest version of the truth.
The real answer? Nora. I can still seeher,barefoot in her family’s farm Vermont kitchen, the sun warming the floorboards. She’d toss vegetables into a colander, water beading on the leaves like jewels. Ten seconds. That’s all it took for her to reduce an onion to a perfect pile of confetti. She’d press a tomato into my hand and lean in close. "Smell that? That’s the one."
It was our ritual. Our language.
And when she was gone, the silence in my apartment was so loud. The only way to shut it up was to keep the knife moving, to fill the air with the sizzle of garlic, any sound but the sound of her absence.
"It helps with nutrition, too," I added, keeping it to the safe version. "Keeps me from living on takeout like half the guys I know."
She glanced at me sideways. "Looks like more than a distraction."
I shrugged, not denying it. Not confirming either.
She didn’t push. Just looked around the space one more time, her eyes tracing the light across the counter.
"My sister-in-law’s the one who cooks," she said, then smiled. "But it’s my nieces who’d fall in love with this kitchen. They pretend they’re on one of those cooking shows—chopped baskets, fake timers, the whole thing."
I felt the corner of my mouth lift. There was genuine affection in her voice. Not an obligation. I’d expected her to sound exasperated. She is doing a favor for her brother. But she genuinely cares about this decision.
“You should see the view from the balcony.”
She turned to look at me, brows raised.
