“You know, Tate,” she says eventually. “You really didn’t have to do all of this.”
“Cook you a steak?” Cutting into the last of mine. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
“That’s not what I mean.” She brings her beer to her lips.
I know what she means.
The room, the books, the food, the effort that sat underneath all of it, quietly, deliberately, and never once made into a performance.
“It’s just what you do for family. That’s all it is.”
Sophia sets her beer down and studies me for a moment, her blue eyes steady and serious in the way they get when she’s actually seeing you rather than just looking at you.
“Ryan was lucky…” she says, “… to have a brother like you.”
I don’t answer.
I can’t.
Something tightens in my chest at those words, something I don’t have a name for, and I turn my attention back to my plate, letting the quiet fill the space where a response should have been.
We clear the table together without discussing it. Sophia stands and starts to stack plates like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and I’m not going to argue with her about it.
Inside, I run the hot water and hand her a dish towel without thinking.
“I don’t actually know where anything goes,” she says, holding the towel and looking around the kitchen with a slight frown, like she’s trying to work out the filing system of someone she’s only just met.
“I’ll wash, you dry. I’ll put away.”
“That seems like you’re doing most of the work.”
“I live here.”
She considers that. “Fair point.”
Passing her the first plate, she dries it and moves toward the cupboards.
“Just leave it on the counter,” I say. “I’ll sort them.”
She ignores me completely and opens the first cupboard.
Wrong one.
“Other one.”
She tries the next.
Wrong again.
“Tate, how many cupboards do you have?”
“Enough.”
She tries a third time and finds the right one, sliding the plate in with a small noise of triumph that she clearly hadn’t meant to make out loud. She glances at me sideways to check if I’d noticed.
I carefully keep my eyes on the sink.
But I am smiling.
