“That was me not being an idiot for once.”
She laughed then, unexpectedly, a real laugh that startled both of them. It loosened something. She took one serving of crackers, sat at the counter, and ate them slowly while he made grilled fish and cut vegetables in a kitchen he was still learning to use.
They developed rituals.
Sunday grocery planning at the dining table, where Taylor treated produce selection like portfolio management until Maya banned him from using the phrase yield on berries. Evening walks on the terrace when her legs were too tired for the park. Shared silence over tea after difficult appointments. Music sometimes in the kitchen—old soul, jazz, once embarrassingly early 2000s pop when Taylor admitted he knew all the words and Maya nearly died laughing.
