“Why haven’t you?”
“I haven’t wanted to attempt it in my tiny Airstream kitchen.”
He gestures around him with his free hand, his other shoveling noodles into his mouth. After swallowing, he says, “My kitchen is your kitchen.”
There’s broth on his chin, and a stain on his white shirt that I’m assuming is soy sauce. He’s messier than I would have expected when I met him in the hospital. There, he seemed straight-laced. Confident and casual. Here, he’s a little undone.
“What?” he asks, when he catches me staring.
I shake my head and return to my ramen. “Nothing. Thanks again for letting me stay.”
“If I had known you could cook like this, I would have offered at the hospital.”
“I think that would have probably gone against some HR rules or something.”
“Oh, definitely,” he says seriously, pushing a lock of damp hair off his forehead. “Shit, I probably should have thought of that.”
Lead sinks in my gut. “Do I need to go?”
“No, no,” he answers quickly, and the sinking sensation starts to dissipate. “I just…”
He trails off and I wait approximately three seconds before asking, “What?”
Blue eyes connect with mine and he shakes his head, ignoring the question. “Nothing. I’ll clean up since you cooked. Do you need help carrying your bags to your room?”
The same overhead lighting makes his dark hair appear even darker, streaked through with shades of gold. It casts shadows over his skin, hiding the freckles I noticed on his cheeks. His hands are braced on the counter, arms tense, veins climbing up the length of them.
It hits me anew that I’ve just moved in with a complete stranger, but I still don’t feel any apprehension about it besides a nervousness at living withanyoneafter being on my own for so long.
“No, I’ve got them. Thanks.” I tip my chin back in the direction of the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. “Which one are you in?” There are two rooms, on either side of the hallway, a bathroom at the end of it.
“The one on the left.”
“Do you snore?”
“Is that going to affect whether or not you stay?”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“You’re in luck. I don’t,” he answers.
“I only live with people who snore. It’s a requirement of mine.”
“Guess you’re shit out of luck.”
A laugh rumbles in my chest. “Guess so.” I grab my bags from beside the front door, frowning at the puddle they left.
“I’ll clean it,” Jack says.
“I’ve got it.”
He waves me off. “Really, I can do it. You need to rest.”
I hold his gaze for a moment before sighing. I’ve never been one to back down, but exhaustion clings to me, so I acquiesce. “Okay, Dr. James, if you insist. Goodnight.”
“Night, Stevie.”
“Aformerpatientmovedin with me,” I tell my supervisor, Jen, at the end of my shift the next day.
