After the incident, the police increased their patrols around the apartment building. Officers frequently checked in with both Sam and Elena, reassuring them that the stalker would be found and dealt with soon. Their presence brought a sliver of security, but the fear hadn't left. Not really. Not for either of them.
Sam stirred awake in his own bed. It was still night—around 8 p.m. He recognized the familiar ceiling above, but it took a few seconds for his brain to catch up. His jaw ached like it had been slammed by bricks, and his ribs flared with every breath. As he tried to sit up, the memories came flooding back.
Elena. Her scream. The door shattering. The fight.
"Elena!" he shouted, adrenaline surging.
The pain hit him instantly. He gasped, clutching his side, fists clenched tightly as he tried to bear it.
There were sounds in his kitchen—soft metallic clinks and the subtle simmering hum of something cooking. A gentle aroma filled the air, warm and inviting.
From the kitchen, a familiar figure moved into view—Elena. She wore an apron, her hair tied loosely behind her. Her steps were quiet, cautious. She walked over and gently reached for his hand.
"I'm here, Sam. It's okay," she said softly.
He blinked hard, still catching up. Her presence brought immediate comfort.
"Elena? You're... in my room?"
She blushed lightly at the question, looking a little embarrassed. "Yeah. I've been here since they brought you back. You passed out, and I... well, I stayed. I'm making dinner. The police handed me the groceries you dropped."
Sam's expression shifted from confusion to concern. "Are you okay? Did he hurt you? If you were injured, we should get you to the hospital. And seriously, you didn't have to cook. I'd be fine with noodles."
She brushed her hand against his cheek. Her touch was soft, reassuring.
"You doofus. I'm totally fine. And why can't I cook for you? You saved me, Sam. You nearly got yourself killed. You deserve better than cheap noodles."
Sam frowned. "Still, if you're hurting or uncomfortable—"
"Then *you* should be in the hospital," she cut in, smiling. "The medics said to keep an eye on you. You looked half-dead."
Sam tossed the blanket off dramatically and stumbled to his feet. "Do I *look* half-dead now? Walking, talking, maybe even capable of breakdancing."
Elena burst into laughter. She doubled over, wiping tears from her eyes. "Stop, Sam, seriously! My stomach hurts from laughing."
Her laughter was contagious. Despite the bruises and pain, Sam grinned. She was safe. That was all that mattered.
She guided him gently toward the living room. "You sit here. Dinner's almost ready. I'll bring it to the table."
"Okay," Sam replied. "I'll set the plates on the small table."
He moved carefully, wincing with each step. Still, he managed to clear space and wipe the table down. The aroma wafting from the kitchen hit him again—something spiced, something rich. His stomach growled audibly.
Elena hummed softly as she brought the food over. One dish at a time—steamed rice, vegetable curry, spiced lentils, and a golden tray of roasted potatoes. The sight made his eyes widen. It looked straight out of a cooking show.
His cooking never looked like this. His idea of effort was adding soy sauce to instant ramen. But this? This was art.
As she finished setting everything up, Sam's mouth was already watering. The aroma, the colors, the warmth—it was overwhelming.
They sat across from each other, plates between them.
"I hope you like it," Elena said, a little shy. "I tried my best."
"Elena," Sam said, looking her straight in the eyes. "This looks *amazing.* The smell alone deserves a five-star rating. Let's start this feast."
"Yeah," she said with a smile. "Let's."
Sam took the first bite. Instantly, his eyes widened. The rice was perfectly cooked, soft but not mushy. The curry was bold, spiced just right, layered with flavor. The lentils were creamy, subtly seasoned, and the potatoes had that perfect crispy edge.
He stared at her. "This is insane. Elena, are you a chef? Like, secretly? This is god-level. I'm not kidding."
She laughed, her cheeks pink. "No, I just like cooking."
"Like it? You *mastered* it. Compared to this, my cooking is actual sabotage. I once made eggs and set off the fire alarm."
Elena giggled. "Oh no."
"Oh yes. My cooking's more of a survival tactic. Yours is... love in edible form."
She looked down, smiling to herself.
"Honestly," Sam added, still eating. "I wish I could eat like this every day."
Elena looked up, hesitating a second. Then she said, "I can make breakfast, lunch, and dinner for you... if you want."
Sam blinked. "Are you serious? I can't let you do that. That's way too much. I'd feel guilty."
"Then pay for the groceries," she offered with a grin. "That way it's fair. I *love* cooking. So don't worry."
Sam looked at her, overwhelmed by the warmth in her voice. "You really mean it?"
"I do," she said, her tone soft but sure.
Sam laughed lightly, then raised his glass. "To the best deal I've ever made."
They clinked glasses.
As they continued eating, Sam added, "You know, if this was a restaurant, I'd give you a glowing Yelp review. Five stars. No, ten. And I'm a harsh critic."
Elena giggled, "Well, that's high praise."
"Seriously, this curry could end wars. Like—bring world peace."
"You're being dramatic."
"No, I'm being honest. I once made spaghetti so bad even the dog refused to eat it."
"Oof," Elena winced. "That's tragic."
"This though," Sam said, gesturing to the spread, "this is next-level. It's not food. It's magic. You've officially ruined takeout for me."
She laughed. "Glad to know I have that power."
"If I had this in college, I would've actually gained the Freshman Fifteen—just from your cooking."
"Sam!"
"I mean it," he said, still grinning. "You're amazing at this."
Their conversation meandered from silly food stories to old memories. Elena talked about her grandma's kitchen, where she learned to cook. Sam shared how he once put aluminum in a microwave. They laughed, teased, and connected.
Every now and then, their eyes lingered a bit longer. Their hands brushed when reaching for dishes. The comfort between them had turned into something deeper, unspoken.
The shadows outside still existed. The past wasn't erased. But inside that small room, with warm food between them and shared glances that said more than words, something new had started.
And neither of them wanted it to end.