Chapter 4 #2
He sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his chaotic hair. In my old Army t-shirt, with sleep creases on his face, he looked younger. More human.
"Is this going to be a regular thing?" he asked. "You waking me up terrified before dawn?"
"Every day. 0530. You'll get used to it."
"I absolutely will not get used to it."
"Then learn to sleep through it." I pushed off the doorframe. "I'll be back in forty minutes. Coffee will be ready when I return. Try not to destroy anything while I'm gone."
"At 5:30 in the morning, I make no promises."
I left him sitting on the bed, still looking like a startled owl, and went for my run.
When I returned forty minutes later, the apartment smelled like smoke.
I pushed through the door to find Tobias at the stove, wielding a spatula as if it had personally offended him. A pan sat on the burner, filled with what might have once been scrambled eggs but now resembled a small tire fire.
"What are you doing?"
He jumped, nearly dropping the spatula. "I was trying to—I wanted to do something useful. You've done so much, and I just—" He gestured helplessly at the smoking pan. "I've never actually cooked before."
I crossed to the stove and turned off the burner. The eggs had achieved a shade of brown that was almost impressive.
"You cremated them."
"I'm aware."
"They're actually smoking."
"I'm also aware of that." He scraped the ruined eggs into the trash with more force than necessary. "I thought eggs would be simple."
"They can be. But you have to start with butter, not direct flame."
He blinked. "Butter."
"Keeps them from sticking. And you have to keep moving them around."
"No one told me that."
"Did anyone ever teach you to cook?"
"No." The word came out flat. "We had staff. Langfords don't make their own food."
I looked at him—standing in my kitchen in my oversized clothes, looking lost and embarrassed and completely out of his depth. A man who'd grown up with servants and had probably never washed his own dishes.
"I could teach you," I heard myself say. "Basic stuff. If you're going to be here a while, you might as well learn to feed yourself."
He looked at me with surprise. "You'd do that?"
"It's not charity. I just don't want you burning my apartment down."
Something flickered across his face—amusement, maybe. "Fair enough."
"Breakfast first." I moved past him to the coffee maker. "Watch and learn."
I made coffee while he stood to the side, trying to stay out of the way. Then I pulled out bread and butter and started a simple breakfast—toast and eggs done properly, nothing fancy, but hot and filling.
We ate standing at the counter because there wasn't really anywhere else. He took his first bite and went still.
"This is good."
"It's eggs."
"It's eggs that aren't burned." He took another bite. "I've had eggs prepared by trained chefs my whole life. But no one ever taught me how to make them myself."
"Your family had staff."
"My family had staff," he agreed. "For everything. I've never cooked, never cleaned, never done laundry. I don't even know how to buy groceries." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I'm twenty-six years old and completely useless."
"You're not useless. You're just untrained." I set my plate in the sink. "There's a difference."
He was quiet for a moment.
"Thank you," he said finally. "For breakfast. And for—everything else."
"Don't mention it." I glanced at the clock. "I need to get ready for work. Bathroom's through the bedroom."
"I know. I'll just—" He gestured vaguely. "Wait."
I showered quickly—five minutes, military efficiency—and emerged to find Tobias hovering near the bedroom door.
"Bathroom's free."
"Thanks."
He slipped past me. I heard the door close, the lock click.
I got dressed, checked my phone for work messages, and waited.
And waited.
Twenty minutes later, I knocked on the bathroom door.
"Tobias. I need to leave in ten minutes."
"Almost done!"
"You've been in there for twenty minutes. What are you doing?"
A pause. Then the door opened a crack. Tobias's face appeared, looking slightly distressed.
"You only have one bar of soap."
"Yes."
"For everything."
"What else do you need?"
"Cleanser. Toner. Serum. Moisturizer. Sunscreen." He said each word like it was self-evident. "I usually have a ten-step routine. I've been standing here for fifteen minutes trying to figure out how to wash my face with..." He gestured vaguely. "With a bar of soap. Like a medieval peasant."
"People wash their faces with soap all the time."
"You use that soap for your entire body. Your hair. Your—everything. And you want me to put it on my face?"
"It's soap. It cleans things."
"It's not the same soap. Face skin is different. It's delicate. It has different needs." He touched his cheek with genuine concern. "My skin is going to revolt. I can already feel it drying out."
"You'll survive."
"You don't understand. I've had a skincare routine since I was fourteen. My mother hired a dermatologist to design it. I've never just—" He made a scrubbing motion. "This is a crisis."
I leaned against the doorframe. "You ran away from a three-hundred-person wedding, you're hiding from your billionaire family, and the crisis is soap?"
He had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "When you put it that way..."
"Five minutes. Then I need to leave."
The door closed. I heard water running. A lot of water. For a long time.
Seven minutes later, he emerged. His face was pink and slightly raw-looking—clearly scrubbed too hard.
"I feel like I've aged ten years," he announced.
"You look fine."
"I look like I washed my face with dish soap."
"I don't have dish soap. Just the one bar."
"That's the problem." He looked genuinely mournful. "I need actual products. Somehow. Eventually."
"Add it to the list." I grabbed my keys. "Right after 'figure out my life' and 'don't get discovered by my billionaire family.'"
"You're mocking me."
"A little."
He almost smiled. "Fair enough."
I didn't have time to argue about skincare. "There's food in the fridge. Don't answer the door for anyone. Don't go outside. Don't—"
"Don't burn down the apartment. I remember." The almost-smile grew. "Go to work. I'll survive. Even with peasant soap."
I grabbed my keys and paused at the door.
"I'll be back around six. If you need anything—"
"I won't need anything. Go."
I went.
But all the way to work, I kept thinking about him in my kitchen, wearing my clothes, horrified by my single bar of soap and his complete inability to make eggs.
What have you gotten yourself into?
I still didn't have an answer.