“You stopped responding to verbal stimuli.”
I leaned back against the counter, crossing one ankle over the other.
The apartment smelled like sesame oil and garlic, cut with the lemon cleaner Rhys used obsessively. It was familiar enough that my chest eased.
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to zone out.”
“You absolutely meant to zone out,” he laughed. “This is your spot. Right here. You stare at that wall like it’s going to confess something.”
“Fuck you.” I huffed, grabbing a towel and rubbing it across my cheek. “It’s a very thinkable wall.”
“It’s your dissociation hotspot. I should put up a plaque.”
I threw the towel at him, and he laughed harder, using the spoon to gesture toward the space above the sink where the paint had gone uneven, faintly darker from the time the pipes burst.
I didn’t know why I gravitated toward it, only that I did—maybe because it was imperfect, or maybe because I knew if I stood here long enough, Rhys would feed me.
“Sit.” He nudged a stool with his foot, the wood scraping softly against the floor. “Before you zone out again.”
“I’m fine.”
“Archibald.” He made a noise. “You’ve been fine since approximatelynever.”
I hesitated for half a second, then climbed onto the stool, toes curling against the rung. The microwave blinked 7:47PM. It had been hours since the interview—long enough for the adrenaline to burn off and leave the rest of it sitting there, unresolved.
Rhys slid a plate in front of me. Steam curled upward, clouding my glasses and warming my cheeks.
The dumplings were golden and uneven, some darker than others, like he’d been flipping them without really looking while pretending not to wait for me to come back to myself.
Rhys folded his arms across his chest and watched me eat with a quiet attentiveness he pretended was casual. He’d been doing that for years—clocking my spirals before I named them and dragging me back with humor, or silence… or dumplings.
“You got the job.”
It wasn’t a question. Rhys had always been a little too certain. The dude was allergic to drama unless he was the one instigating it.
“I did.”
He grinned. “Rothwell would’ve been a fucking idiot not to choose you. You’re smart as hell when it comes to trauma. A little fucked up, but hey, who isn’t?”
“Rhys, literally everyone who applied is smart as hell.”
“Not as smart as you. I’m proud of you, Arch.”
My stomach squeezed with gratitude, and even though I loved my best friend, I wasn’t always convinced I’d earned the kind of belief he had in me.
It felt like he was working off a version of me I hadn’t met yet.
The kitchen was small enough that we were always aware of each other, even when we weren’t speaking. The fridge hummed too loud, the cabinet doors never lined up, and the drawer with the silverware stuck unless you lifted it just right. The whole apartment hovered on the edge of falling apart… but somehow, it held.
Just like us.
We met sophomore year of undergrad in the back row of a lecture neither of us were paying attention to, and somehow he decided I was worth keeping.
Rhys looked like the kind of person who didn’t have to try to be put together—sharp features, light eyes, the kind of presence people noticed without knowing why—which made it deeply unfair that he also ate cold pizza for breakfast like a raccoon with good bone structure.
“So.” He pushed another dumpling toward me. “Was he everything you dreamed?”
I groaned. “Do not say it like that.”
