By the time Samantha got home from work, Corbin had already made dinner.
She stopped in the doorway. Looked at the table, at Corbin, at the table again.
"You cooked," she said.
Corbin glanced over his shoulder. "That's generally what happens when you put food in a pan and apply heat."
She dropped her purse on the couch. "You're getting better at this. Domestic, even."
"I've always been good at cooking."
"You burned toast three days ago. Black. Both sides. It set a personal record and possibly a building record."
"That was sabotage."
"By who? The toaster?"
"The toaster."
She laughed and walked into the kitchen. "The toaster was cleared, by the way. All charges. I checked."
"Then it was the bread."
"The bread was innocent too. The bread was a victim."
She shook her head, still smiling.
She'd started coming home like this with no hesitation — no longer standing in the doorway wondering if she was intruding. Her shoes came off near the couch, her purse went in the same spot every evening, her jacket over the back of a chair. The apartment was becoming hers in small, quiet ways.
Corbin had noticed. He hadn't mentioned it.
"You didn't have to cook," she said. "You could have ordered something."
"I could have."
"But you didn't."
She looked at him suspiciously. "Are you trying to be nice?"
"Don't spread that around."
"I won't," she smiled.
They sat. For a while there was only the sound of forks on plates, the TV playing softly in the background. Somewhere down the hall, a neighbor laughed.
It felt strangely normal. Corbin had spent most of his adult life avoiding normal. Normal was predictable, and predictable was dangerous. People with routines could be tracked. People with attachments could be controlled. People with something to lose could be threatened. He'd built his life to avoid all three.
Then Samantha had walked through his door with a dead phone, no power, and nowhere else to go. Without either of them planning it, she stayed.
"You know," she said, breaking the silence, "I think you're getting used to me."
Corbin looked up. "That's a dangerous assumption."
"You made dinner. For two. There are two plates, Corbin. I'm looking at them."
"I was hungry."
"You were very hungry? Enough for two people's worth of chicken?"
She smiled. "You like having me here."
"I tolerate your presence," Corbin said, taking a bite.
"That's basically affection from you."
He looked at her. She looked back.
Corbin smiled faintly. "You're learning."
"I pay attention."
"I noticed."
"What did you notice?"
"That you put your purse in the same spot every night."
"That's not noticing. That's furniture."
"That you hum when you make coffee."
"I do not hum."
"You do. Quietly. Off-key."
She stared. "You're making that up."
"Am I?"
"I don't hum."
"You hum."
"Fine." She picked up her fork. "What else?"
"That you pretend not to like my cooking."
"I never said that."
"You said the toaster was sabotaged."
"That was different."
"It was the same."
His phone vibrated against the table. His eyes went to it immediately.
Samantha noticed. She always noticed.
He picked it up. One message, unknown number:
We need to talk.
Corbin stared at the screen. He knew exactly who it was.
He typed: No, we don't.
The response came right back: You left me a photograph.
He leaned back in his chair.
"Work?" Samantha asked.
"Something like that."
Another message: My family has nothing to do with this.
Corbin stared at the screen, then typed: Neither does Samantha.
A longer pause. Then: You think you're making a point.
Corbin typed: I already made it.
What do you want?
Corbin looked across the table. Samantha was eating, unaware.
He typed: Nothing.
Then why threaten me?
He considered before replying: I didn't threaten you. I showed you the difference between watching someone and knowing where they are.
The typing indicator flickered on and off. Then: So this is a lesson.
Corbin typed: Apparently.
Another pause. Then: You could have killed me.
Corbin typed three words: Yes, I could.
Samantha looked up. "You okay?"
He locked the phone. "Fine."
She studied him. "You have that look."
"What look?"
"The one where you pretend you're fine."
Corbin raised an eyebrow. "I have several looks."
"You have two: annoyed, and pretending you're not annoyed."
"That's inaccurate."
"Which one are you doing now?"
"Neither."
She smiled. "Sure."
"It was work."
"The work where someone texts you at dinner?"
"The work where I ignore them at dinner."
"You're ignoring them well."
"Thank you."
The phone vibrated again. One final message: How long does this game go on?
Corbin typed back: Until I decide it's over.
He placed the phone facedown.
"Bad news?" she asked.
"No. Someone annoying. Very."
"Are they going to keep texting you?"
"Probably."
"Can you block them?"
"I could."
"Then why don't you?"
A small smile. "Because I want them to know I'm ignoring them."
She shook her head. "That makes no sense."
"It makes sense to me."
"That's the problem."
Corbin laughed softly, and she smiled.
He left the phone facedown. Whatever was happening outside could wait. For once, he didn't care to chase it.
She picked up her fork. "So."
"So?"
"I was thinking about something. About the couch, before you make the face."
"That's always dangerous. And the couch is fine."
"The couch is terrible."
"You sleep on it."
"Exactly. I sleep on it, and surviving isn't the same as being comfortable. It's too small, Corbin. I wake up feeling like I was folded in half."
"You're smaller than the couch."
"That isn't the point."
Corbin nodded. "Fair enough."
She stared at him. "Did you just agree with me?"
"Don't get used to it."
"Too late," she smiled.
"We bought a couch," he said.
"That was the other apartment. This couch is yours. It's where comfort goes to die."
"You sleep on everything. You could sleep standing up."
"I have."
"I'm not asking."
"Good," Corbin said. "Because I wasn't agreeing."
"You already did. You said fair enough."
Corbin sighed. "Fine. A new couch."
"See? Growth."
He picked up his fork. "Don't tell anyone."
Corbin leaned back and forgot about the phone for the rest of the evening.
Outside, the city moved on — cars passed below, people went home to their ordinary lives. Inside, Corbin sat across from a woman who had somehow become part of his. He wasn't sure when it had happened or what to call it, but he knew one thing: he wasn't going to let anyone take it away.