"What were you thinking about?"
"Like you said, leaving." Honest. Direct. "I was going to make this, bring it to you, then pack my bags and disappear tonight."
"But you're still here."
"You invited me to dinner." She looks down at her plate. "And I haven't eaten a real meal with another person in over a week. Turns out that matters more than I thought it would."
I grab forks from the drawer. Lead her back to the living room because the kitchen table feels too formal. Too much like a date.
This isn't a date.
This is… I don't know what this is. We sit at opposite ends of the couch. Enough space between us for safety. For pretending this is normal.
I take a bite of the chicken and—
"Jesus."
Nora freezes. "What? Is it bad? I thought I—"
"It's perfect." I take another bite. "This is incredible. Where did you learn to cook like this?"
"YouTube, mostly." She's still not eating, just watching me. "And practice. I had a lot of time to practice when I lived with my parents. They didn't pay attention to me unless I did something wrong, so cooking was safe."
Safe. That word again.
"They didn't deserve you," I say.
She blinks. "You don't know that."
"Yeah, I do." I point my fork at her plate. "Eat. You made it."
She does. Small bites at first, like she's testing whether it's okay to take up space in my apartment. To exist here.
We eat in silence for a while. It should be awkward. Two strangers who met four hours ago in a parking lot, now sitting on a couch sharing dinner.
It's not awkward. It's quiet. The good kind. The kind where the buzzing in my ear fades to background static and my shoulders unknot half an inch.
"Can I ask you something?" Nora's voice is soft.
"Yeah."
"Why did you help me? In the parking lot. You didn't know me. Didn't owe me anything. You could have just walked past."
I could have. Should have.
"You asked them to leave you alone," I say. "They didn't listen. That was enough."
"Most people would have—"
"I'm not most people." It comes out harder than I mean it to. "And you shouldn't have to beg to be left alone. Nobody should."
She's quiet for a long moment. When I look over, she's staring at her plate. Her hair's falling forward, hiding her face.
"My parents used to tell me I should be grateful," she says finally. "That a man like Castellano wanted me. That I wasn't pretty enough or thin enough or special enough to have options, so I should take what I was offered and be happy."
The anger is back. Hot and sharp.
"Your parents were wrong."
