Paxton cooked.
It wasn’t elaborate—pasta, garlic, whatever vegetables were left in Kevin’s fridge—but he moved around the small kitchen like he belonged there, sleeves rolled, phone face-down on the counter. Kevin sat on the barstool watching him and tried not to turn every quiet minute into a question about someone else’s house.
“You’re staring,” Paxton said without looking over.
“You’re in my kitchen. It’s a novelty.”
Paxton glanced back, mouth tilting. “I’ve been in your kitchen for weeks.”
“Not like this. Not without a crisis on the table.”
Paxton drained the pasta, mixed it, and set a plate in front of Kevin. “Then eat before one arrives.”
They ate at the counter. Kevin talked about a shift change at work. Paxton talked about a contractor who had lied about a timeline. Ordinary
