Sloan sat, mostly because standing there watching her felt too obvious.
Matty moved around the kitchen with an ease that should have irritated Sloan, and yet it didn’t. Matty knew where the plates were now. Knew which drawer the serving spoons lived in. Which tea towels were clean. Absently, she talked as she worked, as if her actions and presence were ordinary.
“Your mum’s had a decent day, actually,” she said, spooning pasta onto a plate. “She watched telly most of the afternoon. Had a proper argument with a crossword around three.”
Sloan looked up. “A crossword?”
“Mm. One clue wouldn’t fit and apparently that was a personal attack.”
That got a smile out of Sloan.
“She did eventually get it,” Matty went on, “though not before accusing the setter of being illiterate.”
“That sounds like her.”
“Then there was a documentary about stately homes, which she said was boring but watched all the way through. And she had a biscuit with her tea and pretended she didn’t want it.”
Sloan watched her as she spoke. She noticed the easy movement of her hands, and the way she tucked the serving spoon against the side of the dish to stop it dripping. She was talking about Gloria’s day as though it mattered; as if the small details were worth carrying over and handing back.
No one had ever done that.
Usually, the report was a list of problems, giving a summary of what Gloria had refused, or thrown, or said. A handover—efficient, clinical, necessary.
This felt different.
Matty set a plate down in front of Sloan.
“She ate lunch,” she continued. “Took her tablets without trying to negotiate a hostage release. Didn’t throw anything at me. Honestly, I’m starting to think she likes me.”
Sloan looked up at that.
Matty was smiling, but only just.
The kitchen suddenly felt too small, toointimate.
“I’m impressed,” Sloan said, and meant it more than she’d intended to let show.
Something shifted in Matty’s face—not surprise exactly—something quieter. Pleased, maybe, or caught off guard by the sincerity?
“Well,” Matty said, reaching for the water jug she’d set on the sideboard, “don’t tell her that. She’ll ruin the streak.”
Sloan laughed, and Matty smiled properly then, quick and bright and impossible not to feel somewhere low and inconvenient.
Matty came around the side of the table with the water jug, and Sloan found herself tracking the movement before she could pretend not to. The closer Matty got, the more aware Sloan became of everything at once—the warmth of the kitchen, the smell of dinner, the soft squeak of Matty’s shoes against the tiled floor.
She filled the glass by Sloan’s plate, her fingers brushing Sloan’s knuckles as she poured. Barely any touch at all, but Sloan felt herself go still.
Matty must have noticed, because when she straightened, she did it more slowly than was necessary.
“How wasyourday?” she asked.
Sloan smiled at the question and wondered if she should say exactly how her day had been. Instead, she said, “Long.”
Matty nodded. “You looked tired when you came in.”
“I admit, I do feel a little exhausted.” She picked up a fork and dug into the pasta.
“Good thing I’ve fed you, then.”
