He grins and grabs two forks from the drawer. "See? You're learning."
I grab my container and follow him to the couch. He's already queuing up something on his laptop—a documentary about street photographers in the seventies.
I tuck my feet under me and balance the pad thai on my lap. Tom drops onto the other end of the couch, container in one hand, fork in the other.
We eat in silence for a minute. It’s comfortable.
He takes a bite, chews, swallows. "So there was this one time in Red Hook—"
"Another trespassing story?"
"Security dogs."
I raise an eyebrow. "Plural?"
"Two of them. German shepherds. Very motivated." He spears a spring roll. "I was shooting this warehouse conversion—great bones, terrible lighting—and I needed a specific angle from the loading dock."
"Let me guess. You didn't have permission."
"I had implied permission. The site manager said I could shoot exteriors."
"And the loading dock was technically exterior."
"Exactly." He grins. "So I'm halfway through the series when I hear this noise behind me. Low growl. I turn around and there's two dogs, off-leash, staring at me like I just insulted their mothers."
I set my fork down. "What did you do?"
"Ran."
"Obviously."
"Made it to the chain-link fence in under ten seconds. Personal record." He takes another bite. "Cleared the top in one jump."
"And?"
"Caught my jeans on the wire. Ripped clean through the back seam."
I press my hand over my mouth, shoulders shaking.
"Rode the F train home with my jacket tied around my waist."
I'm laughing now, head tipped back, container wobbling on my lap. "And hoping you didn't get arrested for indecent exposure?"
"I sat in the corner of the car and didn't make eye contact with anyone for forty-five minutes."
"Did you get the shot?"
"Oh yeah. Sold it to an architecture magazine for fifteen hundred bucks." He shakes his head. "Totally worth the trauma."
I wipe my eyes and reach for my water.
I'm barefoot. I haven't checked my phone in forty minutes. I'm sinking into the couch, completely relaxed. My shoulders have dropped at least an inch since I walked through the door.
I watch his hands as he gestures, the way he holds the fork like he's sketching instead of eating.
Tom leans forward to grab his water. His laptop is still open on the table, screen angled toward him.
A notification chime cuts through the room. A banner drops down in the corner of the screen.
