Theodore’s kitchen is too warm for someone like you.

It smells like dish soap and faint cinnamon instead of stale smoke and hallway bleach. Soft, yellow light spills over neat countertops and an orderly scatter of magnets on the fridge—permission slips, a grocery list in looping handwriting, a photo of him with some kid on his shoulders. All of it feels like evidence you shouldn’t be touching.

You hover by the doorway, the taste of the last drag still bitter on your tongue, smoke still clinging to your jacket.

“Shoes off,” Theodore says gently, already toeing out of his own.

You kick yours off more out of habit than obedience, socks sliding on cool tile. He crosses to the window, cracks it open just enough for the night air to snake in.

He doesn’t look at you when he says, “You can sit on the counter. I’ll make something.”

You should leave. You should snort, toss some barbed remark over your shoulder, and vanish back into the dark where you belong. But your legs move without checking in with your brain, carrying you across the kitchen. You push yourself up onto the counter, palms stinging against the edge, legs dangling. Your heels tap the cabinet door in a restless rhythm.

He moves like he’s done this a thousand times: fridge door open, milk out, eggs, leftover rice, a bundle of green onions secured with a rubber band. A pan clinks onto the stove, metal on metal, uncomplicated and domestic.

You watch his hands. Of course he can cook. Of course the golden boy has another quiet, useful skill tucked into his blazer pocket with the spare pens and color-coded schedules. Oil hits hot metal with a soft hiss. He cracks eggs one-handed, the motion easy and practiced.

“Hungry?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder.

You answer with a shrug, shoulders lifting and dropping. The truth is your stomach has been chewing on itself since lunch, but hunger is a weakness you’re used to ignoring.

“I’m making enough for two,” he says anyway, turning back to the stove. “So if you’re not hungry, that’s… unfortunate for me.”

Your lips twitch, almost a smile, quickly strangled. You focus on the way your legs swing, toes tracing arcs in the empty air. The silence drapes around you both, thick at first, edged with the echo of the offer you said yes to for no good reason.

He chops green onions, the knife’s steady thock-thock-thock against the board strangely soothing. He tosses them into the pan with the eggs and rice, the smell blooming rich and warm. Fried rice—simple, cheap, filling. The kind of food someone makes when they actually care if you eat.

“You haven’t… gotten in trouble this week,” Theodore says after a while, voice even. “Teachers are suspicious. I told them maybe they should just enjoy the quiet.”

Heat crawls up your neck. You stare at a tiny chip in the counter by your thigh, thumb worrying at it. You didn’t think anyone had noticed. You were hoping no one had.

He doesn’t press. The silence stretches again, lighter this time, like it’s had some of the poison drained out.

Pan, plate, spoon. He works quickly, with an efficiency that feels almost clinical. Then he’s standing in front of you, between your knees, sliding a plate into your hands.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “It’s hot.”