Chapter 5
Tobias
The door clicked shut behind Vance, and suddenly the apartment felt enormous.
I stood in the kitchen, holding a mug of cooling coffee, listening to the silence. No footsteps in the hallway. No distant voices. No one watching to see what I would do next.
For the first time in twenty-six years, I was completely alone.
Now what?
I didn't have an answer. I'd spent my entire life being told where to go, what to do, how to behave. Every hour of every day had been scheduled, managed, optimized. The idea of having a whole day with nothing required of me was terrifying.
Also exhilarating.
I finished my coffee, set the mug in the sink, and stood there, staring at it, unsure of what to do next. Did I wash it? Leave it? I found dish soap under the sink, washed the mug by hand, dried it with a paper towel, and put it back where I'd found it.
One small task. Done.
The sense of accomplishment was absurd and undeniable.
I spent the morning exploring the apartment—really looking this time, now that I was alone.
Vance's living habits were... interesting.
The couch cushions were slightly crooked, as if he never bothered to straighten them after sitting. A pair of socks had been kicked under the coffee table and forgotten. The TV remote sat atop a stack of unopened mail that looked weeks old.
In the kitchen, the dish towel hung crooked on its hook. The salt and pepper shakers sat on opposite sides of the counter for no apparent reason. A chipped coffee mug occupied a space in the cabinet next to perfectly good ones.
I opened the cabinet where he kept spices.
There was only salt.
That was it. Just salt. One container of table salt, half empty, looking lonely on an otherwise bare shelf.
I stared at it for a long moment.
"How does anyone cook with just salt?" I asked the empty kitchen. The kitchen didn't answer.
I checked the other cabinets. Instant oatmeal. Canned soup. Protein bars. A bag of rice that looked like it had been there since the building was constructed.
This wasn't a kitchen. This was a survival bunker.
The bedroom was the same. Clothes draped over the back of a chair—not dirty, just not put away. The closet door hung open. Shoes scattered on the floor instead of lined up.
None of it was dirty. Just... lived in. Careless. The home of someone who didn't care about appearances because no one was watching.
I found myself straightening things without meaning to.
First the couch cushions. Then the socks—I picked them up and didn't know where to put them, so I folded them and left them on the arm of the couch. I stacked the mail neatly, aligning the corners. The TV remote I placed parallel to the edge of the coffee table.
In the kitchen, I straightened the dish towel and moved the salt and pepper shakers together. I wiped down the counter even though it wasn't dirty.
Each small adjustment felt like a conversation I didn't know how to have out loud.
Thank you for saving me. Thank you for letting me stay. I don't know how to repay you, but I can do this.
By noon, I'd organized most of the apartment.
The chair in the bedroom was empty now—I'd folded Vance's clothes and put them in the dresser, guessing at which drawer was which. I lined up the shoes by the closet door. I made the bed with careful corners, the way I'd seen housekeepers do it my whole life but never done myself.
I stood in the doorway and looked at my work.
It suddenly occurred to me that this might be unwelcome. That Vance had his own system, his own way of doing things, and I'd just reorganized his belongings without asking.
You're a guest. You don't get to touch someone else's things.
But it was too late to undo it now. I'd just have to apologize when he got back.
The afternoon stretched out, long and empty.
I found some instant oatmeal in the cabinet and made myself lunch—following the instructions on the packet exactly, terrified of messing up even something this simple. It tasted like paste, but it was food I'd made myself.
Another small victory.
I thought about Elizabeth.
By now, she would be fielding calls from concerned friends, trying to make sense of what had happened. Her parents would be furious. Her mother had probably already called a lawyer.
And Elizabeth herself—kind, patient Elizabeth—would be wondering what she'd done wrong.
Nothing. You did nothing wrong. I was the one in the wrong.
I pressed my forehead against the cool window glass and watched the street below. Ordinary people going about their lives. They probably knew how to cook, do laundry, pay bills, and exist in the world. They likely didn't feel like they were learning to be human at twenty-six.
I should feel worse about this. I should be drowning in guilt. Instead, I felt lighter than I had in years.
That probably made me a terrible person.
Or maybe it just made me honest.
Vance returned at six.
I heard his key in the lock and stood up from the couch, suddenly nervous. Would he be angry about the organizing? Would he think I'd overstepped?
He stepped inside, still in work clothes, and stopped.
His gaze moved slowly across the room. The straightened cushions. The neat stack of mail. The remote placed just so.
"You cleaned."
"I—yes. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have touched your things without asking. I just—I needed something to do, and—"
"Tobias."
I stopped talking.
"It's fine." He closed the door behind him, something unreadable in his expression. "You didn't have to do that."
"I wanted to. You've done so much for me, and I can't—I don't know how to repay that. This was the only thing I could think of."
He was quiet for a moment. Then he walked past me toward the bedroom.
I held my breath.
He stood in the doorway, looking at the made bed, the organized closet, the shoes lined up in a row.
"You folded my clothes."
"I put them in the dresser. I tried to guess which drawer—I'm sorry, I should have—"
"Stop apologizing." He turned to look at me. "It's fine. It's more than fine. It's..." He shook his head slightly. "No one's ever done that before."
I didn't know what to say.
"Did you eat?" he asked.
"Oatmeal. For lunch."
"That's not enough." He moved back toward the kitchen, opening the fridge. "I should teach you to make something real. There are eggs and some vegetables—" He pulled out a few items. "Omelet. Simple, but actual food."
"You don't have to—"
"I said I'd teach you." He set the ingredients on the counter. "Come here."
So he taught me.
Step by step, he walked me through the process. How to crack eggs without getting shell in the bowl. How to whisk them properly. How to heat the pan, add butter, and wait for the sizzle.
"Now pour the eggs in. Slowly."
I did.
"Good. Now let them set for a second before you start moving them."
I waited, watching the edges turn opaque.
"Now—gently—push the edges toward the center. Let the runny part flow to the sides."
I followed his instructions, concentrating on not messing up. The eggs folded over themselves, transforming into something that actually resembled food.
"Cheese now. Just a little."
I sprinkled cheese on one half, then folded the other half over, as he had shown me.
"Now slide it onto the plate."
I did. It wasn't beautiful—slightly lopsided, a little brown on one side—but it was recognizable. An omelet. Made by me.
"Not bad," Vance said.
"Really?"
"It's edible. That's what matters."
I stared at the plate. This imperfect omelet that I'd made with my own hands.
"Thank you," I said. "For teaching me."
"Everyone needs to eat." He grabbed another pan. "I'll make one for myself. You start on that before it gets cold."
We ate at the counter, standing side by side. The omelet was simple—eggs and cheese—but it tasted better than anything I could remember eating.
Maybe because I'd made it myself.
"You really only have salt," I said between bites.
"What?"
"In your spice cabinet. I looked. There's only salt."
"What else do you need?"
I set down my fork. "Pepper? Garlic? Oregano? Paprika? Anything?"
"I don't know what to do with most of those."
"You put them in food. To make it taste like something."
"Salt makes food taste like something."
"Salt makes food taste like salt." I gestured at my omelet. "This is good. But imagine if we had herbs. Or spices. Or literally any other flavor."
He shrugged. "I mostly don't cook. Protein bars. Sandwiches. Sometimes I heat up soup."
"That's not cooking. That's survival."
"Same thing."
"It's absolutely not the same thing." I shook my head. "How have you lived like this?"
"Efficiently."
"Sadly. You've lived sadly."
Something flickered across his face—not offense, exactly. More like surprise that someone would care enough to criticize his eating habits.
"You'll need to eat while you're here," he said, changing the subject. "Might as well learn."
Practical. Direct. No sentiment.
I was starting to understand that this was just how Vance operated.
After dinner, I washed the dishes while Vance showered. The routine felt strange—domestic in a way I'd never experienced. At home, dishes disappeared into the kitchen and came back clean. I'd never thought about the process in between.
Now I stood at the sink, hands in warm soapy water, scrubbing egg residue off a pan, and felt absurdly proud of myself.
When Vance emerged from the bathroom, he was wearing sweatpants and a faded t-shirt, his hair damp. He looked different like this—less guarded, maybe. More human.
He settled onto the couch and picked up the remote—now neatly placed on the coffee table instead of buried under mail.
"You watch TV?"
The question caught me off guard. "I... yes? Sometimes?"
"What do you watch?"
I tried to remember the last time I had chosen something to watch for myself instead of sitting through whatever Elizabeth or my parents had selected. "I don't know. News, mostly. Whatever was on."
He made a sound that might have been disapproval. "That's not watching TV. That's background noise."
He flipped through channels and settled on a crime drama. "Sit down. You're making me nervous standing there."
I sat on the opposite end of the couch, keeping a careful distance between us.
The show was violent and confusing—I had missed too many episodes to understand the plot—but I found myself watching anyway. Not the screen, exactly, but the way Vance watched it. He relaxed into the cushions, one arm stretched along the back of the couch, his face neutral even during tense scenes.
"You're not watching," he said without looking at me.
"I don't know what's happening."
"Guy on the left killed someone. Guy on the right is trying to prove it. That's all you need to know."
"That's... reductive."
"It's accurate." He glanced over. "You don't have to watch if you don't want to."
"No, I—" I turned back to the screen. "Wait. Why does he think the guy on the left did it?"
"Because he found blood on his jacket."
"But they were at a butcher shop earlier. In that flashback. Couldn't it be animal blood?"
Vance paused and looked at me. "You caught that?"
"It was obvious. The camera lingered on his sleeve when he brushed against the counter."
"Huh." He returned his attention to the screen. "Most people don't notice things like that."
"I was trained to notice details. Architecture requires it." I watched as the detective continued his accusation. "See? He's going to realize his mistake. The real killer is the woman from the beginning, the one who was too helpful."
"You think?"
"She established an alibi within the first five minutes. Nobody does that unless they need one."
Twenty minutes later, I was proven right.
Vance stared at the credits rolling on screen. "How did you know?"
"The details didn't add up. She said she was at the gym, but her hair was styled. Nobody styles their hair before the gym." I shrugged. "Also, the actress was too famous to be a minor character."
"That's cheating."
"That's observation."
He shook his head, but there was a hint of respect in his expression. "You want to watch another one?"
"Only if you promise not to spoil it with your one-sentence summaries."
"I wasn't spoiling. I was providing context."
"You said 'guy on the left killed someone.' He didn't kill anyone."
"I was working with incomplete information."
"You were wrong. I was right." I couldn't help but smile. "So no more summaries."
He laughed—short and surprised, like it had escaped without permission. "Fine. No summaries."
We watched another episode, then a third. I found myself making observations about the plot, while Vance kept telling me I was overthinking it. Somehow, we ended up debating whether a witness was lying based on how she held her coffee cup.
"Nobody holds a coffee cup like that," I insisted.
"It's a TV show. People hold things however the director tells them to."
"But it means something. Everything in a frame means something."
"Or the actress was cold and needed something warm to hold."
"You have no appreciation for visual storytelling."
"I appreciate it plenty. I just don't assume every coffee cup is a metaphor."
By the time the clock read almost eleven, my eyes were starting to droop.
"You should sleep," Vance said. "You've had a long day."
"You've had a longer one. You went to work."
"I'm used to it."
I didn't move. The couch was comfortable, the apartment warm, and for the first time in as long as I could remember, I didn't want to be anywhere else.
"Tobias."
"Hmm?"
"Bed. Now."
I stood, my body protesting the movement. "What about you?"
"I'll be fine out here."
"You can't keep sleeping on the couch. It's your apartment."
"And you're my guest." His tone made it clear the discussion was over. "Go."
I went.
Later, lying in Vance's bed, I stared at the ceiling and listened to the quiet sounds of him settling onto the couch. The creak of springs. The rustle of a blanket. Then silence.
One day. I had survived one day on my own.
I'd washed dishes, folded laundry, made an omelet, and argued about a TV show with a man who thought salt was the only necessary spice.
Small things. Ordinary things.
The most extraordinary day of my life.
Tomorrow there would be another. And another after that. Slowly, piece by piece, I would figure out how to be a person.
The thought was terrifying.
It was also, for the first time in my life, something I actually wanted.