“I know.” He almost smiles. “The 2 AM cookie incidents.”
Plural.
Rude of him to keep receipts.
“You drove by my apartment at 2 AM to check if my light was on. Multiple times.” I squint at him. “Sir. That’s either very sweet or deeply illegal.”
His smile becomes real. “Fair point.”
The kettle clicks off. I pour two mugs, not Enzo’s mug. A neutral mug.
I can’t emotionally raw-dog tea out ofthatcup. I’m fragile, not reckless.
I hand one to Saul.
Our fingers brush during the transfer. Neither of us pulls away.
“Tomorrow,” I say, “I’m going to go downstairs and figure out that kitchen. Make a list of supplies I need. Start planning a menu.”
“Okay.”
“And,” I say, “I’m not going to think about the recipes that emotionally suplex me.”
He tilts his head slightly.
“Peanut butter chocolate chip.” My voice is steady. Mostly. “Those are emotionally copyrighted. And amaretti. I can’t make those. Not yet. Maybe not ever.”
“That makes sense.”
“It does?”
“You’re not ready.” He says it simply. Without judgment. “Someday you might be. Or you might never make those recipes again. Either way is okay.”
I wrap both hands around my mug. Let the warmth seep into my palms. “How do you do that?” I ask.
“Do what?”
“Make me believe I might not die of cookie grief.”
He’s quiet for a moment.
The kitchen is so dark I can barely see his expression, but I can feel him thinking.
“Because I’ve survived things,” he says finally. “Not the same things. But enough to know that it’s possible. And enough to know it doesn’t happen all at once.”
I think about his divorce. The woman who said he was like a ghost. I think about how he’s here, at 4 AM, drinking tea in my kitchen like this is exactly where he wants to be.
“Saul?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For being here. For all of it.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I know.” I take a sip of tea. “I’m doing it anyway.”
He laughs. Soft, surprised, the sound filling the dark kitchen.
