you had told yourself this was the last time.

really. you’d said it out loud. maybe not to him—but definitely to yourself, muttered in the car on the way home while holding the one missing grocery item and replaying the words just stir it. that’s all you need to do. stir it until i’m back. over and over like a spell.

but spells didn’t work on edgar james callahan.

especially not when he had a case file in his hands and a legal theory lodged somewhere between his molars like a popcorn kernel he couldn’t stop thinking about. because of course, he’d walked away. of course he had remembered some obscure statute loophole and followed it like a bloodhound, leaving the stove unattended like it wasn’t holding the dinner you’d spent most of the afternoon prepping.

and now here you were.

standing in the kitchen. staring at the blackened, ruined remains of what had been dinner. the pot was already in the sink, the entire apartment smelled like betrayal and burnt garlic, and your jaw was locked so tight it could probably cut steel.

you heard him before you saw him. soft footfalls from the hallway. the rustle of fabric. the casual clearing of a throat from a man who clearly had no idea what level of domestic war he was walking into.

edgar entered the kitchen still holding the case file, hair slightly mussed, glasses pushed up on his nose, and looked up just in time to meet your stare.

dead. fucking. silence.

he froze. the way someone might if they spotted a wild animal and remembered—belatedly—that it was mating season and they’d just stepped on its tail.

his eyes flicked to the pot in the sink. back to you. to the pot. to the very visible disappointment on your face. he winced, mouth opening just slightly before closing again. like windows during a hurricane.

“i…” he started, voice lighter than it had any right to be. “umm. i am sorry.”

he lowered the case file like it was a peace offering, like sacrificing paperwork would undo scorched pasta.

you said nothing. mostly because if you said anything, it would be loud.

edgar cleared his throat. glanced at the fridge. then at you. then tried again.

“we could… order pizza?”

you blinked.

he shifted his weight, clearly computing his odds of survival. “…and maybe i don’t talk for the rest of the night?”

better.

still not enough.

but better.