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Antonio’s mouth tipped at one corner again. “There you are.”

That felt intimate, like he had been waiting specifically for Hakeem to sound like himself. As if he knew when Hakeem was performing and when he wasn’t. Hakeem saw clearly how much Antonio noticed, and some desperate, treacherous part of him liked it.

Antonio plated the food and set one dish in front of him. He did not touch Hakeem in the process, but he came close enough for Hakeem to notice. His hand brushed the back of Hakeem’s chair as he moved past.

It was barely anything. Still, Hakeem felt it.

Antonio sat across from him, and for a minute, they ate in silence.

The kitchen relaxed. Outside, the yard was dimming into a blue shadow. The little window over the sink reflected part of the room back at them: table, plates, Antonio’s shoulder, Hakeem’s bent head. A version of dinner that looked almost domestic enough to scare him.

Hakeem took another bite, then looked up before he could stop himself. “You cooked the onions down well.”

Antonio glanced at him. “They’re better that way.”

“Correct,” Hakeem said.

“You look relieved.”

An uncontrolled expression crossed Hakeem’s face before he could do anything useful about it. “I do not.”

“You do,” Antonio said, holding a look a second too long.

Hakeem dropped his eyes to his food, then immediately got irritated at himself for dropping them. He was a grown man, not a romance novel heroine being perceived too intently by her beau.

“You notice… random things,” he said.

“I notice things people care about.”

Antonio’s low, impossible sentence structure was rearranging the air. Everything Antonio said seemed capable of meaning one thing plainly and another thing if you turned it in the light.

Hakeem took a drink of water to buy himself a second. “That sounds suspiciously considerate.”

“Don’t spread it around.”

“This is not helping your whole ominous-housemate situation.”

Antonio looked at him across the table. “Is that what I have?”

“You know. Vibes,” Hakeem answered.

“You have terrible instincts.”

“Do I?” Hakeem questioned.

That sharpened something in Antonio’s face. Not anger. A flicker of something more thoughtful, more watchful.

“Yes,” he said. “But not in the way you think.”

They ate another few bites. Then Antonio leaned back slightly in his chair and asked, “How’s work?”

The question should have been ordinary, but it didn’t feel like it. Antonio asked it like he wanted a real answer.

Hakeem met his eyes. “Busy.”

“Bad?”

Hakeem let out a short breath. “There was a line to the door by eight-thirty, somebody knocked over a full Dead End into the garnish tray, and Tabbi decided mid-rush was the ideal time to give me notes about one of my recent performances like we were in rehearsal for a play called Everybody Calm Down While Nothing Is Calm.”