Chapter 6 #2
"Because I could." His voice was careful, like he was figuring out the words as he spoke.
"At home, everything was done for me. I never chose the food, never decided how the table was set, never even picked what kind of soap was in my bathroom.
There were staff for that. People whose entire job was to make sure I never had to think about mundane things. "
"Sounds nice."
"I thought it was. I thought I was lucky because I never had to worry about those things.
" He picked up his fork again, turning it between his fingers.
"But it wasn't luck. It was control dressed up as convenience.
They decided what I ate, what I wore, how my room was arranged.
And I never questioned it because I didn't know there was anything to question. "
"You were rich. Most people would call that lucky."
"Most people would be wrong." He met my eyes, and there was something fierce in his gaze that I hadn't seen before.
"Do you know what it's like to reach twenty-six and realize you've never made a single decision that was actually yours?
Not your job, not your home, not the person you were supposed to marry.
Everything was decided for you, arranged for you, handled by people who thought they knew better. "
I didn't answer. My own life had been the opposite.
Nobody decided anything for me because nobody gave a damn what happened to me.
No parents to guide me, no staff to arrange things, no money to smooth the way.
Every choice I'd ever made was mine by default, because there was nobody else around to make them.
"Today I chose to make pasta," Tobias said. "I chose which pot to use, how to fold the napkins, and where to put the plant. Small things. Probably stupid things. But they were mine."
The tightness in my chest returned, and this time I couldn't pretend it wasn't there.
"The pasta's not stupid," I said. "It's really good."
His smile was brighter this time. Real. "Thank you."
After dinner, I reached for my plate.
"I'll wash them."
"You cooked. I'll clean."
"Do you know how to wash dishes properly?"
I paused, plate in hand, caught off guard by the question. "There's a proper way?"
Tobias's expression was unreadable. For a moment, I thought he would lecture me on dish-washing technique, which would have been both insufferable and somehow not surprising.
"You have to scrub the entire surface, not just the parts that look dirty," he said. "And rinse with hot water, not lukewarm. Dry them before putting them away, or you'll get water spots."
"I've been washing dishes for thirty-four years. I know how."
"Have you been doing it correctly?"
"I've been doing it adequately."
"That's not the same thing."
I set the plate down. "Are you telling me I don't know how to clean my own kitchen?"
"I'm saying there's a difference between clean and adequately rinsed.
" He stood, collecting his plate with movements that were both elegant and efficient.
"You can leave grease residue and wonder why everything tastes vaguely like last week's chicken.
Or you can let me show you the proper technique. "
"That's never happened."
"Has anyone ever checked?"
I opened my mouth, then closed it. He had a point. Nobody had ever checked my dishes. Nobody had been in my kitchen long enough to notice or care.
"Fine." I handed over my plate. "Show me."
He carried the dishes to the sink, rolling up the sleeves of my Army shirt past his elbows. "First, scrape any remaining food into the trash. Then rinse with hot water to soften the grease. Apply soap to the sponge, not directly to the dish."
"Why does it matter where the soap goes?"
"Consistent coverage. If you apply it directly to the dish, you get concentrated soap in some areas and none in others."
I watched him work, standing close enough to see but not so close that we were touching. His hands moved with careful precision, turning each dish under the water, scrubbing in small circles, rinsing thoroughly before setting it in the drying rack.
"Now the pan," he said. "Cast iron or stainless?"
I glanced at my pan as if I'd never seen it before. "Stainless, I think. I don't actually know."
"Stainless." He ran hot water and added a small amount of soap. "Good thing—cast iron requires different care. No soap, just hot water and a scrub brush. You want to clean this while it's still warm from cooking. Cold food is harder to remove."
"You learned all this in a few days?"
"Your laptop has WiFi." He scrubbed the pan, muscles in his forearms flexing. "I hope you don't mind. I found some cooking tutorials and cleaning guides. Figured I should learn how to take care of myself."
"You don't have to earn your place here."
His hands stilled on the pan. "I know. But I want to."
There was something in his voice that made me really look at him instead of the careful avoidance I'd practiced since he showed up in my apartment wearing my clothes.
He was beautiful.
Not in the polished way he had been at the wedding. Not the perfectly groomed heir in a custom tuxedo. This was different. Flour on his cheek, water spots on his shirt, hair falling across his forehead, and he was beautiful in a way that made my chest ache.
Don't.
I stepped back, creating distance. "I should probably take a shower. Long day."
"Of course." He turned back to the dishes, and if he noticed me pulling away, he didn't show it. "I'll finish these."
I retreated to the bathroom and stood under water hot enough to hurt, trying not to think about the man in my kitchen. The man who folded napkins, bought plants, and looked at me like I'd hung the moon just because I'd given him a place to sleep.
This was a terrible idea.
All of it. Him staying here. Me wanting him to stay. The way my heart raced every time he smiled.
Terrible, terrible idea.
I turned the water colder, trying to freeze the feeling out of my chest.
When I emerged, Tobias was curled on the couch with one of my paperbacks.
He looked up when I entered, and something in his expression softened.
"Better?"
"Fine." I grabbed a beer from the fridge. "What are you reading?"
"This one." He held up the battered cover of The Hunt for Red October. "I found it on your shelf. I hope you don't mind."
"I don't mind." I settled on the opposite end of the couch, leaving space between us. "That's a good one."
"It's very... technical."
"You don't like technical?"
"I'm not sure yet. That's the strange part.
" He turned the book over in his hands, examining the worn cover.
"At home, we had a library. Thousands of books, first editions, rare collections.
I could have read anything I wanted. But I always reached for what I thought I should read.
Business books. Industry journals. Things that would make me useful at dinner conversations.
" He smiled, but it was thin. "No one told me to. I just assumed that was expected."
"And now?"
"Now I'm reading about Soviet submarines and nuclear standoffs, and I have no idea if I'll like it." He looked up at me, something almost curious in his expression. "But I get to find out. That's the point, isn't it?"
"Yeah." My voice came out rougher than I intended. "That's the point."
We sat in comfortable silence while he read and I pretended to watch TV.
But I wasn't really watching. I was too aware of him at the other end of the couch.
The way he tucked his feet under himself.
The way he frowned slightly when he hit a technical passage he didn't understand, how he occasionally mouthed words as if tasting them.
The first thing he'd done with his freedom was make dinner and fold napkins. Not escape, not panic, not self-destruction. He'd made a home out of my apartment. He'd even bought a plant.
He's going to leave eventually. When things settle down, when the media moves on, when he figures out what he actually wants.
I knew that. I'd known it from the beginning.
But watching him now, curled on my couch with my book, wearing my clothes, I found myself hoping "eventually" was a long time coming.
You're in trouble.
Yeah. I was.