He doesn’t turn around. “Because I didn’t spend money on size four jeans for you to be too small to fit them.”
“Size four?”
He stills.
“Is that not your size?”
“I—I don’t know I usually just—” steal is on the tip of my tongue, “thrift clothes.”
He grunts and continues to cook. I watch him move around my kitchen like he’s done this before. Like standing in a stranger’s apartment at night, cooking them dinner, is normal behavior for a Pakhan.
It’s not.
I should tell him to leave. Should grab my knife from my boot by the door and make him understand that breaking into my space repeatedly isn’t acceptable.
But I don’t.
Because the smell of peppers and steak hitting hot oil makes my stomach clench with hunger I usually ignore for days.
I lean against the wall, arms crossed, and watch.
He’s efficient. No wasted movements. The knife moves through the vegetables with precision that speaks of practice. Not the kind you get from cooking classes. The kind you get from doing it over and over until muscle memory takes over.
“You cook for every stranger whose car you steal?” I ask.
His shoulders tense for a fraction of a second. “No, just you.”
The admission hangs in the air between us. Raw. Unexpected.
I don’t push.
“Sit,” he says without turning around.
“I’m fine standing.”
“Ayla.”
My name in his mouth is a warning and a promise all at once.
I sit on one of my stools.
He plates the food—pepper steak, and sets it in front of me with a fork
“Eat.”
I stare at the plate. “You’re very bossy.”
“And you’re very stubborn.”
“I prefer the term ‘independent.’”
“I prefer the term ‘pain in my ass.’”
My lips twitch despite myself. “That’s four terms.”
“Eat your fucking food, Beda.”
I pick up the fork. Take a bite. It’s good. Really good.
