Chapter 11 #2
The kitchen is beige in the way only rental kitchens manage to be. Beige cupboards, beige tiles, beige ambitions. He steps into it and has to adjust immediately, turning sideways so the bags don’t knock into anything important, like walls.
He sets them down on the counter with care, rearranging them because there is exactly one configuration in which two full shopping bags can exist peacefully in this space.
“This is…” he starts.
“Small,” I say from the doorway. “Yes. You’re allowed to think it.”
He smiles. “Efficient.”
“Okay,” I say finally. “You need to explain what you’re doing here.”
He looks up, unbothered. “I brought food.”
“That part I’ve grasped,” I say. “I was expecting a delivery. Not… you.”
“I know,” he says. “I just wanted to make sure you reheated it properly.”
I stare at him.
“That’s your explanation.”
“Yes.”
“You came all this way,” I say slowly, “because you don’t trust me with a microwave.”
“I trust you,” he replies. “I don’t trust microwaves.”
“Personal vendetta?”
“They’re chaotic,” he says mildly. “And some things suffer for it.”
I fold my arms, which is a mistake because it pulls my cardigan tighter and makes me very aware of my own state.
“And that required a house visit.”
“It required five minutes and clear instructions,” he says. “This seemed easier.”
I let out a breath. “Are you not working?”
“No.”
I glance up. “At all?”
“The restaurant’s closed on Sundays.”
“Oh,” I say, recalibrating. “Right.”
He nods once, then looks at me properly, eyes flicking from my face to the hot water bottle I’m still clutching like a life raft.
“Come and sit down,” he says. Not bossy. Practical. Like he’s directing traffic rather than a person.
“I can manage,” I reply automatically.
“I know,” he says. “Humour me anyway.”
I hesitate, because letting people do things for me is not my natural state, and then he’s already steering me gently back towards the living room with a hand hovering near my elbow, not quite touching, giving me the illusion of control.
“I’ll sort the food,” he adds. “You supervise.”
“I don’t supervise,” I say. “I criticise.”
“That’s fine,” he says. “I’m used to it.”
I lower myself onto the sofa with a sigh, my spine filing a formal complaint. He turns back towards the kitchen, rolling his sleeves up slightly, completely at ease.
Then he freezes.
Properly freezes.
His whole body locks like he’s walked into a crime scene.
“What—"
I follow his line of sight.
Hadrian has chosen this exact moment to emerge fully from his little stone cave, perched on his favourite rock, watching the room with the serene confidence of a creature who pays no rent and fears nothing.
“…Why do you have that?”
“That’s Hadrian,” I say.
“Thanks for the intro,” Tom says. “But my question was why.”
“Because he’s my pet.”
He looks at me.
Then he looks back at Hadrian.
Then back at me again, like he’s checking for hidden cameras.
“Lizards are not pets.”
“He’s not a lizard. He is a gecko”
“Same thing… kind of,” Tom says patiently. “And pets are meant to be cuddly. Or emotionally available. Or at least capable of recognising their owner.”
“He recognises me.”
“He’s staring at you like you owe him money.”
“He’s contemplative.”
Tom exhales slowly. “I just don’t understand why anyone would choose something cold-blooded and… scaly.”
“Because I didn’t choose him,” I say. “He chose me.”
He blinks. “I’m sorry?”
“I found him,” I say. “Just after Christmas. I was out walking because I’d eaten my own bodyweight in roast potatoes and felt morally obliged to move. Someone had dumped a box near Hadrian’s Wall. Literally just left it there.”
Tom’s expression shifts. Not amused now. Interested.
“It was a cold day,” I continue. “He was barely moving. If I’d been ten minutes later, he’d have been dead.”
Tom looks back at the tank.
“So you… took him home.”
“Yes.”
“Just like that.”
“I took him to an emergency vet,” I say. “Then I took him home. And now he lives here. And before you say it, no, I did not plan any of this.”
There’s a pause.
“You show a lot of care,” Tom says quietly. “For a… lizard.”
I narrow my eyes. “Stop calling him that.”
“He is a lizard.”
“He’s a gecko.”
“You’re saying it like that’s better.”
“It is better.”
“You’re very defensive about this.”
“Because you’re saying ‘lizard’ like it’s an insult.”
Tom gestures vaguely at the tank. “Have you considered what he eats.”
“He eats normal things.”
“That feels unlikely.”
“He’s not disgusting.”
“I didn’t say disgusting,” Tom says. “I implied it. Because what is it that Hadrian eats?"
I hesitate.
“Bugs,” I say.
“See!”
“Mealworms,” I add quickly. “Which are very clean. And nutritious.”
Tom’s mouth tightens. “They really are not. Anything else?”
“…Occasionally cockroaches.”
He closes his eyes.
“I rest my case.”
“They’re bred,” I say. “They’re not from bins.”
“They’re cockroaches.”
“Stop saying it like that.”
Tom opens his eyes again, looking faintly triumphant. “You see the issue.”
I tilt my head. “Oh. Hang on.”
He squints. “Why are you smiling.”
“Because,” I say sweetly, “you run a restaurant.”
“Yes.”
“And restaurants have cockroaches.”
His spine straightens. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh come on,” I say. “All restaurants do.”
“No,” he says firmly. “Bad restaurants do. Mine does not.”
I lift an eyebrow. “You’re telling me you’ve never had a single—”
“We have regular pest control,” he cuts in. “Documented. Scheduled. Very dull. And my kitchen is clean.”
“I’m not saying it isn’t.”
“You are heavily implying it is not.”
“I’m implying that cockroaches exist,” I say. “Globally.”
He exhales through his nose. “Not in my kitchen.”
“Fine,” I say, conceding with exaggerated grace. “Your restaurant is a cockroach-free utopia.”
“Thank you.”
“And therefore, you cannot supply Hadrian with snacks.”
“Correct.”
I nod. “Fine.”
“Fine,” he echoes, already retreating towards the kitchen like this argument has taken years off his life. He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like I did not sign up to compete with a reptile.
“You can leave, you know,” I call after him. “If you don’t appreciate my housemate.”
“I appreciate him from a distance,” he replies. “A very healthy distance. And if that is not acceptable, I can leave.”
“I’d like that,” I throw back, automatically.
There’s a beat.
“Would you,” he says lightly, not turning around.
I hesitate, then mutter, “Actually no. Because whatever that is smells good and I am hungry.”
He huffs a laugh, victorious, and starts moving things around with the confident efficiency of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.
I sink back onto the sofa, clutching the hot water bottle, heart doing something deeply unhelpful. The argument has fizzed through me, sharp and sparky and far too energising for the circumstances.
Which is inconvenient.
Because now, alongside the cramps and the fatigue and the general sense of bodily betrayal, there is a very specific, very unwelcome awareness humming under my skin.
I close my eyes.
Of course this is happening now.
Of course it is him setting off my clit.
And of course I am absolutely not dealing with that until after I’ve eaten… no, not ever.