Something in his face shifts—not offended, just careful. He doesn’t reach for me. He gives me the space, lets the pause sit. “You’re right,” he says. “You don’t.” He says it plainly, like he respects the fear more than he wants to argue it away.
“Come on,” he says, stepping out of the car and walking around to my side.
He opens the door for me again, waiting. “I won’t push you. If you want me to drive you home right now, I will—no questions. But if you stay, it’s a homemade dinner. That’s all. Text your friends the address and my apartment number. Send them a photo of me if it makes you feel safer.”
I look at him for a long moment. He doesn’t fill the silence. And maybe that’s the thing that settles me—he isn’t rushing me.
“Okay,” I say, the knot loosening. I pull out my phone and text Freddie the address, then slip it back in my pocket. “Now that you say it, I kind of like the idea of home cooking.”
“Then you’re in for a treat,” he says.
The building is simple, clean, and quiet in a way that I like. We walk up a set of stairs, the sound of our footsteps echoing softly in the space. Seconds later, he’s unlocking a door and stepping aside to let me in first.
I step inside. His apartment is exactly what I expected and nothing like I imagined at the same time. Minimal. Clean. Almost bare, like he hasn’t been here long or doesn’t plan to stay. There’s a couch, a small table, a kitchen that looks like it actually gets used. No clutter. No personal touches.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he says, closing the door behind us.
I nod, setting my bag down carefully as I take a few steps further inside, my eyes taking everything in. “It’s nice,” I say, even though that’s not quite the right word.
“It’s quiet,” he replies, like that matters more.
“That’s a good thing?”
“For me, yeah,” he says simply.
He moves past me into the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves slightly as he starts pulling things out like he’s done this a hundred times before.
“Are you going to cook now?” I ask, a little surprised.
“Yeah.” He glances up and smiles, “Not everything. The main dish is ready and simmering.”
“When did you learn to cook?” I ask, fascinated.
He doesn’t look up right away. “Had to. When you grow up in other people’s houses, you learn fast that a kid who can feed himself is a kid who’s less trouble.” He says it lightly, like it’s nothing, but there’s an old edge under it. “Bounced around foster homes most of my childhood. Some places, if you didn’t figure out the kitchen, you didn’t eat.”
Something in my chest pulls tight. “That sounds lonely,” I say quietly.
He shrugs, still working. “It was what it was.” Then, after a moment, softer, like he didn’t plan to say it: “There was one house. A woman named Ruth. I was maybe ten. Only stayed a few months before they moved me again, but she used to let me stand on a chair next to her at the stove. Taught me how to actually cook instead of just survive.” A faint, almost-gone smile. “First time anybody bothered.”
I don’t say anything for a second, just watch him. It’s the most he’s offered about himself, and I get the sense it cost him something.
“What about after?” I ask. “You said the military.”
“Aged out of foster care at eighteen. Enlisted the same year—it was the closest thing to a home that’d take me.” He sets the knife down and meets my eyes briefly. “I was good at it. Better than good. They put a rifle in my hands, and it turned out I had a steady enough aim to matter.” He says it plainly, no pride in it, just fact. “Did that for a long time.”
I move closer, leaning lightly against the counter as I watch him work. I’m fascinated by how easily he moves in the space. How natural it looks despite everything else about him feeling so controlled. “So what are you making?”
“You’ll see,” he says again.
I laugh softly. “You like saying that.”
“It works.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling. “You’re very mysterious.”
“So, I’ve been told.”
“Do you ever just answer a question directly?”
