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Hakeem felt that more than he assumed Antonio meant for him to.

The extra plate had, in fact, been for him. Antonio was apparently capable of doing something kind without padding it in a whole speech. The ease of it was disorienting. Antonio wasn’t self-conscious; he was just a man making dinner for two, as if that were a normal, obvious thing to do in a house where Hakeem had spent the last week cataloging clues for his murder.

“You made all this on purpose?” Hakeem said.

Antonio glanced over at him. “I generally try not to cook by accident.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“I did invite you yesterday.”

“You made a statement about dinner in my vicinity. That is not an invitation that would hold up in federal court.”

Antonio actually laughed.

It was low and brief and almost private, like the sound had slipped out before he could stop it.

“You can survive direct language,” Antonio said.

“That remains to be seen.”

Antonio turned the heat down. “Sit.”

That tone made Hakeem feel steady in a way that made obedience oddly natural, like he would follow whatever orders Antonio dished out easily. He dragged out the chair at the small kitchen table and sat.

From there he could watch without pretending not to.

Antonio moved through the kitchen with a competence that made Hakeem feel faintly insulted on behalf of other men. He reached for things without searching or looking lost at the array of spices and oils in front of him. He tasted the sauce, added salt, and squeezed lime one-handed over a pan. There was no wasted motion in him, no fumbling or performative flourish. It should have made him seem less romantic. Somehow it had the opposite effect.

Hakeem’s gaze caught on a small pale scar at the base of Antonio’s thumb when he lifted the spoon. A burn scar, probably. Something kitchen-earned. Hakeem perceived him in that moment as very human and possibly more normal than he gave him credit for. It was the kind of detail that belonged to a real person and not a figure Hakeem’s nerves had partly cast in shadow.

It did not make him feel safer, but it did make Antonio feel more specific.

“What are you making?” Hakeem asked.

“Tinga.”

“You made tinga on a random Wednesday.”

“It’s Thursday.”

Hakeem frowned. “Is it?”

Antonio turned toward him with the knife he used to chop the vegetables in hand. “You should get more sleep.” Antonio pointed the tip of the blade in Hakeem’s direction. A tremor went through Hakeem’s hands; he hoped it wasn’t visible.

“That’s a very intimate accusation to make in your henley.”

Antonio’s eyes flicked up at that. Not to Hakeem’s face first. To his face eventually, yes, but not first.

Heat moved under Hakeem’s skin so quickly it felt like a chemical response.

Antonio laid the knife down slowly and picked up a spoon. “Taste.”

The single word landed with entirely too much force.

Hakeem looked at the spoon, then at Antonio. “Everything you say to me feels loaded.”

“I’m offering you dinner.”