The kitchen—chaotic and lifeless that morning—now breathed with warmth. The air carried the rich aroma of garlic and onions sizzling softly, layered with the faint, comforting scent of herbs from the grocery bags. Outside, the sun was sinking, painting the spotless floor in soft shades of orange that reflected in the polished countertop. Every surface gleamed as if the apartment itself were taking a deep, satisfied breath.
Tomas set the grocery bags on the table with care. Laura was already pulling items out like a child discovering gifts for the first time. She lifted a bright red tomato and spun around in small circles, holding it aloft like a trophy.
"Look! Pasta, tomatoes, chicken, cheese, salad, bread, milk, eggs—" She lifted another package triumphantly. "You bought food for an entire army!"
"I didn't know what you liked," Tomas murmured, looking away, his voice low and uncharacteristically hesitant. A trace of embarrassment crept through his usual calm. "I just grabbed whatever was cheaper…"
"Cheaper?" she laughed, nudging him playfully on the arm. "This is half the store!"
Tomas stiffened at the unexpected touch—so simple, so intimate—but he didn't pull away. He had forgotten how heavy a light, human touch could feel, how its warmth could seep into frozen spaces inside him.
"Alright, chef," Laura said, tying his oversized apron around her waist with exaggerated care. "I'll chop the vegetables. You fry the chicken. Or we can switch. Just don't tell me you can't cook. You look like the type who can do anything."
"I can," he replied, defensive, taking the knife in hand. Something warmed inside him at the easy banter, a feeling long buried under years of routine and distance. "I just… haven't done it in a while. I don't remember the last time."
They stood side by side, shoulders nearly brushing. Their movements slowly fell into a quiet, unfamiliar harmony, like two dancers learning the steps of a long-forgotten waltz. Each chop of the knife, each stir of the pan, created a rhythm that filled the kitchen with life.
Laura sliced tomatoes quickly and skillfully. Tomas watched her hands longer than necessary, admiring the grace in their motion.
"You work as a waitress," he said, his voice quiet, observant. "But you cut like a professional."
"I worked in a kitchen for a couple of years," she admitted, tone softening, shadows of old pain brushing her words. "Before Obsidian. Until… until—" She stopped, the knife hovering above the cutting board. Tok. Tok. Tok. Only the cutting board broke the silence.
"And you?" she asked quietly, looking at him. "Why all the medical books? Were you a student? Or… something more?"
Tomas froze mid-motion. The blade hovered in the air as he weighed his words.
"I was." His voice dropped, heavy with memory. "My parents worked in pharmaceuticals. They pushed me toward medicine. But I quit. It didn't interest me anymore." He paused, glancing briefly at a worn textbook on the counter. "And… I don't have my parents now."
She set the knife down and turned to him, expression gentle.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"It's fine," Tomas interrupted softly, though his eyes held the weight of memory, distant grief he couldn't yet articulate.
The pan hissed as oil heated, snapping his attention back to the meal. Tomas added the chicken—far too much. Smoke rose immediately, curling in lazy gray spirals toward the ceiling.
"Oh no!" Laura burst into laughter, grabbing the spatula. "Too much! It's going to burn!"
"I warned you," he muttered, but the faintest smile crept into his voice.
She added onions and garlic, rescuing the dish from imminent disaster. The aroma deepened, rich and comforting, filling the small apartment with a sense of normalcy Tomas had almost forgotten existed.
"When I was little," Laura said softly, stirring the sauce, "my mom made pasta like this every Sunday. Back then, it felt like we were the happiest people in the world." She paused, voice catching slightly. "Reality had other plans."
Tomas stared into the pan before speaking. "My father made omelets every morning. Even before long work shifts. He used to say, 'A person must eat first—then save others.'" His voice dropped lower, almost to himself. "I miss that."
Laura smiled, a bittersweet expression.
They finished the meal together—thick sauce, steaming pasta, the aroma clinging to their clothes, hair, and skin. She sprinkled cheese over the top in an absent-minded, careful way.
"Dinner is served," she said lightly, as if they had both performed a small ritual.
They ate in quiet companionship—not awkward, but comfortable, like two people who had briefly reclaimed a fragment of a world they thought they had lost.
"It's very good," Tomas said after the first bite, surprised by the sincerity in his voice.
"Really?" Her face brightened instantly, a light flickering in her eyes that Tomas didn't know he missed.
"Yes. I haven't had anything this… home-like in a long time."
After a pause, Laura spoke again. "Tomorrow I'm going back to work at Obsidian. When I get paid, I'll give you money for rent. I promise."
Tomas shook his head. "I don't need money. If you cook sometimes and keep the place clean, that's enough." He hesitated. "Do you like working at the bar? Or do you want something else?"
Laura thought for a moment. "I do like it," she admitted, "but some customers get too pushy. Still, the owner and his wife helped me a lot. They're good people." Her eyes softened. "Someday, I want to open a small, cozy coffee shop. A place where people can sit, relax, drink coffee, eat fresh buns… feel safe."
She hesitated, then asked quietly: "You work all kinds of jobs, but nothing stable. Why not return to medicine? Something steady. Maybe you'd find interest again."
Tomas exhaled slowly, his tone cooling. "Because nothing interests me. Nothing… triggers emotions."
Her gaze softened. "I understand. You just haven't found the right thing yet. If you want… I can help you look for something you might actually enjoy."
For the first time, Tomas truly looked at her. "…Alright," he said quietly.
Her smile was wide, bright—contagious, stubbornly warm in the dim light of the kitchen.
"Deal," she said.
They cleaned the table together. Tomas washed the dishes with methodical precision while Laura turned on the TV—a flickering, old movie casting shadows across the clean apartment. It had been months since she had indulged in such comfort.
Tomas brought two cans of beer from the fridge, handing one to her, and sat beside her on the sofa. Their shoulders brushed lightly.
"It's been a long time since I watched TV," he admitted.
"Me too," she whispered.
Near the end of the movie, Laura's head gently fell onto his shoulder. Tomas glanced down. She must be exhausted—after cleaning, cooking, and still carrying the weight of the day. Carefully, he shifted her head onto a pillow so she wouldn't wake, then draped a blanket over her.
In the quiet kitchen, he opened another beer, sat at the table, and took out the notebook—the list.
Point three was done.
Time for new ones.
Laura's voice echoed faintly in his memory: I'll help you find what you like.
He thought about what he wanted—but nothing came. Still, he wrote:
6. Spend a day having fun
Something I haven't done in years. An amusement park? Games? Something that feels alive again.
7. Go to the seaside and watch the sunset
The calm sea. A reminder that life still has colors.
8. Use my medical knowledge to help someone
My parents' legacy. Maybe help someone the way I helped Laura. To feel useful again.
He stared at the list until his vision blurred. The quiet apartment, now warm and alive, hummed around him. The soft breathing from the sofa reminded him of the small, necessary bonds forming in his life. Slowly, sleep claimed him at the table, head resting against his crossed arms.