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Gabe can mind his own damn business.

I get back to portioning out dinner, dividing the chicken between containers and adding vegetables to each one. It's a routine I've followed for years. Cook once, eat for days, and never waste time figuring out what to make when I get home late.

The footsteps on the stairs are quiet enough that I don't notice them until Anna appears in the kitchen doorway.

She's wearing pajamas, her hair loose around her shoulders, and she looks sleepy enough that I wonder if I've kept her awake.

"Sorry," she says, glancing at the counter. "I was just coming down for some water."

"You're fine. Glasses are in that cupboard."

She crosses to the sink while I finish another container.

"Meal prep?" she asks.

"Yeah."

"For the week?"

"That's generally how it works."

She gives me a look over her shoulder. "You're charming, you know that?"

"I've been told."

She fills her glass and takes a drink, then glances at my phone.

"Was that your friend?"

"Gabe. My best friend."

"He sounds very invested in your personal life."

I look at her. "He's nosy."

She laughs, and I like the sound of it.

"Maybe he needs a hobby."

She smiles and takes another sip.

I return to the food, though I'm beginning to suspect she's not quite as sleepy as she looked when she walked in.

"So," she says casually, "you don't want a relationship?"

My hand stills over the container.

I turn to look at her. "You heard that?"

"Some of it." She lifts one shoulder. "Your phone was on speaker."

Of course it was.

I glance at the phone, then back at her.

"He's always got an opinion."

"And you don't?"