I sit on the edge of the couch, knees damn near at my chest, hunched over a paper plate like some kind of giant gremlin. The television is on, playing some documentary about sharks that kill in the Arctic. I’m not really watching it—just need the noise. What I am watching is this pitiful excuse for food I’ve managed to make: two pieces of white bread with a single, cold slice of turkey in between. No sauce. No veggies. No pride.

I take a bite. Bread sticks to the roof of my mouth like drywall paste.

My phone buzzes. I ignore it. Too much effort to lift those tree trunk fingers again. My traps ache from last night’s game. We lost. I fouled out in the third. Coach was mad. I was madder.

The front door clicks. Tiny feet on hardwood. Then a familiar voice, sweet like honey but sharp like little knives when she’s mad.

“Viktor Reznikov, what are you eating?”

I freeze mid-bite. Chew slowly. Swallow like a man about to be judged by the gods.

“Sandwich,” I say.

She’s already in the room now, standing with her arms crossed over her chest. She’s five-foot-nothing and maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet, but I swear her glare hits harder than any power forward in the league.

“That’s not a sandwich,” she says, marching over and yanking the plate from my hands. “That’s a cry for help.”

I shrug. “Is meat. Is bread. Is sandwich.”

“You’re an NBA player, you’ve been in the army, you can bench press a car—but you can’t figure out how to use the stove?”

“I can use stove,” I mutter. “Just don’t want to burn down kitchen. Again.”

She stares at me like I’ve grown another head. Then her expression softens, and she sighs, setting the plate down. “Vitya… you can’t live off sad sandwiches and protein shakes. You need real food. Vegetables. Something hot. Something with flavor.”

I look at the sandwich, then at her. “You are real food,” I say, grinning.

She blinks, then smacks my arm. “Stop flirting. I’m mad at you.”

I pout, which probably looks ridiculous on a face like mine. “Don’t be mad. Make me food. Please?”