The soft clink of the fork hitting the plate echoed louder than it should have. Damian stood there, just staring at the half-eaten pasta. It wasn't perfect. Not even close. But something about it stuck with him. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely, and let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
It was a weird feeling. Not bad. Just... quiet.
It wasn't about the food. The taste was a little off—the garlic was a bit too bitter, and the noodles were definitely softer than they should've been. But it reminded him of something. Something warm. Something distant.
He thought of Theodore again. The way he used to hum while cooking, how he'd taste-test things with a wooden spoon like he was in some cooking show. Damian remembered sitting at the counter, pretending not to stare. Back when things were easy. Or at least, felt like they were.
He picked up his phone, thumb hovering over Theodore's contact.
Then he turned his phone off.
Not yet.
He wasn't sure what he'd even say. "Hey, I made something you used to like before I ruined our lives?" Yeah. No.
He ran a hand through his hair, stepped away from the counter, and cleaned up the mess—scrubbing the pan, wiping the counter, tossing out the lemon peel that had dried up. Once everything looked decent again, Damian stood in the kitchen for a second longer, hands on his hips.
The villa was quiet. Still too big, still too cold. But maybe—just maybe—it didn't feel completely empty tonight.
Tomorrow, he'd go to his father.
Tomorrow, he'd think about the world again. Instead of just preparing for the apocalypse.
But tonight? He let himself remember someone who made that world worth saving. Even if all he had was a plate of overcooked pasta and a memory. Damian's heart felt heavy, he turned around and left.
He flicked off the kitchen lights, letting the shadows settle over the marble counters and spotless sink. The silence that followed wasn't so heavy this time. It didn't claw at his chest or echo in his ears like it usually did.
He padded barefoot down the hallway, past closed doors and untouched rooms. Too many things felt temporary now, even the walls. Like he wasn't meant to stay. Like this was just a place to wait for something worse.
But tonight, he didn't feel like running from that feeling.
Damian paused by Theodore's room. The door was cracked open, inside was still the same neatly made bed, the same folded blanket at the edge. He didn't step in, just looked. Then kept walking. In his own room, he sat on the edge of the bed, not bothering to pull the covers back. He stared down at his hands—still faintly smelling of garlic and lemon.
What was he doing?
He wasn't a cook. He wasn't someone who made heartfelt meals or remembered the tiny details about another person's favorite dishes. He was barely holding it together, preparing for a world that hadn't even started crumbling yet. And still, in that small, stupid moment, he had wanted to feel close to someone.
To Theodore.
Not the version of him that left. Not the quiet, distant man from the end.
The one who smiled. The one who hummed in the kitchen and asked Damian to try the sauce. The one who used to look at him like he was someone worth waiting for. Even though he wasn't.
He laid back on the bed, arms behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
"Tomorrow," he whispered.
Tomorrow, he'd face his father. Tomorrow, he'd push forward with the plans. The storage. The safehouses. The routes. All of it.
But tonight?
He let his eyes close and allowed the scent of garlic to linger just a little longer—like a ghost of the past that hadn't let go.
___
Theodore's POV
The scent of fresh bread wafted through the cracks of the tutoring center's thin walls, mixing with the sharp tang of dry-erase markers and dusty paper. Theodore sat at his desk, red pen in hand, circling another misspelled word in a grammar worksheet. His student, a quiet eleven-year-old named Jamie, was chewing on the end of a pencil, eyes narrowed in thought.
"Try again on number four," Theodore said gently, sliding the sheet back toward him. "You're close."
Jamie nodded, and Theodore leaned back, letting his gaze drift to the window. The glass was a little foggy, streaked from a sudden sprinkle earlier in the afternoon. He could see the edge of the old bookstore next door—faded awning, always closed sign swinging lazily in the breeze. The bakery on the other side was already prepping for tomorrow, the clatter of trays and faint bursts of laughter seeping through the thin walls.
It was quiet. Predictable. The kind of quiet Theodore had learned to hold onto.
"Is this right?" Jamie asked, pulling him back.
Theodore leaned forward, reading the sentence again. He smiled. "Perfect."
The kid beamed, and Theodore reached for the next worksheet. His hands paused briefly over the stack when his phone buzzed once in his pocket. He glanced at it. No new messages. Just a calendar reminder—nothing important.
Still, for a second, his thoughts strayed.
He hadn't heard from Damian in a long time.
Not that he expected to. Not really. But sometimes, when the wind carried the smell of lemon and garlic from the bakery instead of sugar and yeast, something stirred. A memory, more like muscle memory than thought—of laughter in a kitchen, of warm food and soft smiles that no longer belonged to him.
He pushed the thought aside.
"Alright," he said, clearing his throat and offering Jamie another sheet. "Let's fight the next one." Jamie grinned, "Yeah! Lets fight."
After the session ended and Jamie left with a shy wave, Theodore sat alone in the small center. He held his forehead in his palm, sweat dripping down his forehead. He remembered waking up feeling fine. It started as a twinge—barely there, like static under his skin.
Theodore blinked down at the worksheet he was marking, his pen hovering mid-air. His pulse skipped. The air in the small tutoring room felt heavier than it had ten minutes ago. His sweat left a mark on the paper he was marking.