"Here. Dice this. Small pieces. Don't murder it this time."
He takes the onion. Holds the knife the way a man holds a blade when he knows exactly what it can do but has never applied that knowledge to produce. His cuts are precise — too precise, military-grid squares no recipe has ever required.
"Smaller," I say. "And less geometric."
We fall into something. Not a rhythm — more like a current. I handle the skillet. He handles what I hand him. His elbow brushes mine reaching for the salt. Half a second. My skin keeps the impression longer.
The chicken smells like actual food — garlic, tomatoes, sweet onion char. I stir. He watches. The kitchen window is dark, and for a few minutes the Foxglove feels like the house Margit loved instead of the one someone is trying to take.
No barrier between us tonight. Neither of us builds it. Neither of us mentions it.
I'm on my back, staring at the ceiling. He's on his side, facing the door.
"My mother collected magnets," he says.
The words arrive so quietly I almost miss them. Like he tested them first and decided they were small enough to survive the open air.
"Magnets?"
"From gas stations. Rest stops. Anywhere she could find them." A pause. "She had this refrigerator that was more magnet than metal. Little rectangles from every gas station she passed. Places she never got to — just the magnets. Cartoon cacti, neon diners. She'd stick them on the fridge like they were postcards from a life she was planning to live."
My chest does something complicated. I keep my breathing even.
"She never went to most of those places," he says. "She just liked having them. Like proof that someone had been there and thought it was worth remembering."
"My great-aunt Margit collected salt and pepper shakers," I say. "So many pairs in the attic. Ceramic cats, lighthouses, ears of corn. A pair shaped like Richard Nixon."
His breath catches. Not a laugh — almost.
"Nixon."
"The salt comes out of his head."
This time it is a laugh. Small, surprised, escaped without permission. The sound fills the space between us the way his arm filled the space that night — warm, unexpected, something I'll think about later when I shouldn't.
I don't ask about his mother. I don't ask where the magnets are now. These are doors he's cracked open an inch, and I'm not shoving through.
"I'll find the Nixon shakers tomorrow," I say.
"Yeah." His voice is softer. Stripped of a layer I can sense but can't name. "Okay."
The house settles. My hand rests on the mattress between us. His hand rests on the mattress between us. The distance between them is the width of a promise neither of us has made yet.
Something wakes me.
Not a sound — the absence of one. Liam is already sitting up, phone in hand, the screen casting blue light across his jaw. His body has gone still. Not calm. Ready.
"What?" Rough with sleep.
"Stay here."
He's out of bed before I can argue. Bare feet on hardwood, moving with the silence of someone who's practiced not being heard. The bedroom door opens. Closes. His footsteps disappear.
My heart hammers. The bedroom window glows — porch light, camera light. Every sound amplifies. The refrigerator hum. A pipe settling. The front door opening, then closing.
I count breaths. Make it to eleven before his footsteps return, slower, heavier. He's holding something.
A photograph. Glossy, real photo paper. He holds it by the edges — careful, like evidence.
