There it was.
Sitting in front of me on my overpriced dining table.
A single, sad, medium-rare steak on a porcelain plate i've never even used before.
I mean… it wasn't crying or anything.
But it might as well have been.
"This," I said aloud to absolutely no one, "is not the dinner of a woman who's emotionally thriving."
My fork clinked against the plate as i poked the steak.
It bounced back.
Mocking me.
Ugh.
I leaned my chin on my palm dramatically. "You're the saddest steak i've ever seen. I'm not even sure if you're beef or just my own self-pity on a plate."
I sighed so loud it could be heard three floors down.
Because—okay, fine—I'm not used to eating alone anymore.
WHICH IS WEIRD, RIGHT? I've only eaten with Cairo ONCE. Once. And suddenly my condo feels like a hollow, echo-y bachelor pad without him chewing in front of me like he's mad at the rice.
Ugh.
I'm so emotionally constipated.
Whatever.
I'm not going to just sit here and let this steak stare into my soul.
I dropped my fork with a clink, stood up with full telenovela conviction, and grabbed my glittery phone like it was a dagger of justice.
No. I will not die from sad steak tonight.
I marched toward Cairo's unit with the seriousness of a woman with intent.
Not that i had a plan, but whatever.
I had a Chanel robe on and fury in my heart.
I didn't even knock like a normal human being. I banged.
KNOCK. KNOCK.
KNOCK. Pause. KNOCKKNOCKKNOCK.
Nothing.
I knocked again, more aggressively this time.
He was probably inside pretending he didn't hear me. So i did what any rational person would do—I kept knocking until he had no choice but to open the door or file a police report.
Finally—
Click.
The door creaked open and there he was.
In all his hoodie-wearing, I-don't-care-about-anything glory.
"What," he said flatly.
"I CAN'T EAT ALONE!" I declared dramatically, arms out like i was asking for salvation.
Cairo blinked once. Twice. "Okay?"
"No, it's not okay. I bought steak—like, actual steak. From a fancy delivery box. It came with truffle salt! TRUFFLE. SALT. But i can't eat it. Because it's lonely. I'm lonely. I've emotionally attached myself to a meal we never shared!"
"...That doesn't sound healthy," he said, already turning around to leave the door open.
I followed him inside like a sad little rich puppy.
He walked straight to his kitchen. "So now what?"
"You cook for me," I said, plopping down on the barstool like a princess who just fired her entire staff.
He side-eyed me as he took out a pan. "You want me to cook for you now?"
"YES!"
He sighed, already cracking another egg. "You're ridiculous."
"You're cold," I shot back, folding my arms. "But warm when you cook. So maybe there's hope."
He ignored me.
I watched in silent fascination as he chopped vegetables like he hated them but knew how to cut exactly the right way.
Honestly, it was… impressive.
"So you can cook?" I said, head tilting. "So impressive! You race cars, you play basketball, and now this? Are you a cooking k-drama lead pretending to be grumpy but actually husband material?"
He didn't answer.
Just tossed onions into the pan like he was doing it a favor.
I gasped.
"Oh my gosh. You are husband material."
He finally glanced at me. "You're insane."
I smiled sweetly. "And you're in denial."
He handed me a glass of water.
I stared at it.
"What's this?"
"Hydration," he deadpanned. "You've been yelling since you got here."
I took a small sip like a delicate Victorian ghost.
He shook his head and went back to cooking.
I watched him, chin resting on my hand.
He was stirring sauce now.
Very seriously.
"So how do you survive in a condo by yourself?" he asked suddenly. "You don't know how to cook. Can't drive. Can't eat alone."
"Excuse me, I can survive. I have a cleaning lady. And i order food. And i have three apps that deliver things at lightning speed."
"And if the internet dies?"
I blinked. "Then i die."
He smirked. SMIRKED.
"And you have a driver's license?"
I nodded proudly. "I do!"
"Even though you don't drive?"
"Exactly."
He gave me a long, tired look.
"I needed an ID, okay? And my passport photo is ugly. And i wasn't about to apply for a postal ID, like—please."
He just shook his head again like i was a full-time disaster. He wasn't wrong.
He plated the food and placed it in front of me. "Eat."
I gasped again. "Cairo! You're my chef now!"
He was already walking away. "I'm not your chef. This is the last time."
"No it's not," I called after him. "You like feeding me."
"Not even close."
I took a bite.
Immediately groaned.
"Oh my God."
"What now?" he asked, not looking.
"This is better than my sad steak."
"Obviously."
"You're good at this."
"I know."
I chewed dramatically. "You're my trainer, my chef, and my savior."
"Great," he muttered.
I looked at his back with a smile that curled like a plot twist.
"Next… maybe my husband?"
He froze mid-step.
Turned around slowly. "What?"
I smiled wider. "You said i keep adding roles for you. So i just thought… you know. Why not go all the way?"
He stared at me.
I waited.
Then he said, "So you actually want to marry me?"
I gasped like someone had just accused me of murder. "OMG. That's harassing. You are harassing me again!"
He groaned.
"I am a woman with dignity! How dare you assume i want to marry you just because you can cook!"
"You literally said it."
"It's called flirting! Look it up!"
He sat down across me, grabbed a fork, and started eating like i wasn't dramatic at all.
I chewed slower, smiling between bites. "This is nice."
"What is."
"This. Us. Me, being a mess. You, being annoyed. And food."
He didn't reply.
But i saw the ghost of a smile on his lips.
And that was enough for me.
I stabbed a piece of broccoli with too much drama, nearly flinging it off the plate.
"This is humiliating," I whispered, eyes narrowed at my own dinner like it betrayed me.
I mean—how dare i be this clingy?
To a man who literally told me to shut up before the car even started this morning.
To a man who wears hoodies like it's his entire personality.
To a man who smiled—and suddenly the stupid world made sense again.
"So," I said, trying to sound casual, which was ridiculous because i was holding a spoon like a microphone. "Is this what you do? Cook for random girls who cry over sad steak and demand driving lessons?"
He didn't look up.
Just kept stirring whatever he was making like a Food Network host with no soul.
"No," he said, voice flat.
I paused. "Wow. So i'm special?"
"You're loud."
"That's true."
He glanced at me. "And dramatic."
"That's slander."
"You cried over rice."
Okay, that one was fair.
It was yesterday's rice and it was a little dry and it was right after i saw him in Nadine's hoodie, so—yeah, okay.
"You're judging me," I said, flopping onto the barstool with the energy of a princess who just got disowned by her kingdom.
"I'm observing," he replied.
"Observing is judging with better posture."
He exhaled, clearly regretting every life decision that led him to this condo unit, this dinner, and possibly, me.
I crossed my legs, chin raised, trying to look like I belonged there. "So you actually cook?"
He shrugged, plating the food. "Basic survival."
"That's not basic. That's advanced." I leaned forward. "So you can cook, do race cars, play basketball, and now this?"
He didn't respond, just set down the plate in front of me.
I blinked.
There was an actual garnish.
"You're showing off," I whispered, in awe. "What are you gonna do next? Solve world hunger? Fix my personality?"
He smirked—barely. "Impossible."
"You're so mean."
"And you're still talking."
I grinned, stabbing into the food like it owed me money. "This is what peak teamwork looks like."
"You begged to eat here."
"And yet i elevated the vibe."
He sat across from me, finally, arms crossed like he was guarding the last bit of patience in his entire bloodline.
He stared at me while i ate like a storm.
"Seriously, though," I said with my mouth full (sorry, Miss Manners). "How do you know how to cook?"
"I grew up eating. Thought i'd try making it."
I gasped. "That's deep."
He rolled his eyes. "It's not."
I chewed thoughtfully. "You know, for someone who pretends to hate everything, you're actually kinda perfect. Like—if i squint hard enough."
"That supposed to be a compliment?"
"Maybe. I don't know. Feel free to take it as harassment."
His eyebrow twitched. "That's not funny."
"Oh my god," I slapped the table dramatically.
"You're harassing me again!"
"Elara."
"You're going to be reported. There are laws—"
"Elara."
"I could go viral. 'Innocent condo girl gets emotionally bullied by tall, hoodie-wearing neighbor—'"
"Elara."
"Yes, husband?"
Silence.
The tension paused like the universe hit the brakes.
I blinked.
Wait—
Wait.
Did I say husband out loud?
I tried to recover. "I mean… future husband. I was just doing a scene. From a drama. Very method. I'm actually auditioning for—"
"You're not an actress."
"That's rude. Unnecessary. Hurtful."
"And true."
"I'm offended. I'm leaving."
I stood up and didn't move.
Mainly because i was still chewing.
He sighed, leaned back, and looked at me like i was a museum exhibit that made noise.
"What would you do," he asked slowly, "if i actually became your husband?"
I gasped. "That's harassment again!"
"Seriously."
I sat back down, pretending i wasn't flustered.
"Honestly?"
He waited.
"I'd make you breakfast. Every day."
"You can't cook."
"I'll order it. But with love."
He blinked, unimpressed.
"And I'll… I don't know. Buy you hoodies. The expensive kind. So you can stop stealing from Nadine."
He stared.
I sipped water to buy time. "And maybe i'll let you teach me how to drive again without threatening your life."
"That would be a miracle."
"And maybe i'll stop crying over sad steak."
"Doubt."
"And maybe—" I leaned forward, playful, smug "—you'll stop pretending you're not enjoying this."
Silence.
A flicker of something crossed his face.
"You're unbelievable," he muttered.
I beamed.
"That's basically a love confession."
He pushed his plate away, stood up, and started clearing the table.
Typical cold exit.
I followed him to the sink like a lost duck.
"I'll help," I said, putting a spoon in the wrong compartment.
"Elara."
"I'm just trying to be useful."
"You're in the way."
"I'm just practicing. For marriage."
He turned.
And that look—that very blank, annoyed, emotionally constipated look?
That was the closest thing to love i'd seen all day.
—
I kicked off my heels the moment i got inside my unit, flung them somewhere near the ottoman—but not quite.
One of them did a sad little bounce and landed on its side like it also gave up on life. Same, bestie. Same.
"Home," I whispered to no one, arms wide, eyes closed.
I opened them one second later.
And there it was. Sitting on my kitchen counter, abandoned like a tragic supporting character in a teleserye.
My sad steak.
Cold. Forgotten.
Still wearing that pitiful sprig of rosemary like it was clinging to its last ounce of dignity.
I walked toward it slowly.
Regal. Dramatic.
Like a widow visiting the grave of a husband she only kinda liked.
"Hey," I said softly, placing my hand over my heart. "You didn't deserve that."
Silence.
Which was fair.
It was a piece of meat.
Not a ghost.
I took a deep breath and picked up the plate.
The poor thing was stiff. And grayish now. No one tells you that heartbreak turns food into stone.
"I wasn't myself earlier," I told it, gently setting it on the table like i was giving it a second chance at life. "I was… hungry. Emotional. Betrayed. Vulnerable."
I sighed and pulled up a chair.
"I know you tried. You were just trying to feed me. It's not your fault i have the emotional stability of a shaken soda can."
The steak, once again, didn't reply.
But in my heart—I felt forgiveness.
I grabbed a fork, stabbed a corner, and took a bite.
…Yeah, no.
Still awful.
But i chewed anyway. For closure.
"Look," I said mid-chew, "you were never gonna be him, okay? You weren't seasoned enough. You didn't have that… that thing he puts in his food."
Another bite. I winced.
"Yeah, okay, that thing might be actual flavor."
I dropped the fork dramatically and collapsed against the back of the chair. "This is why i catch feelings. I get fed once and suddenly I'm starring in my own imaginary K-drama."
I stood up again, plate in hand, and carried it to the sink. There were now three separate piles of dishes in my life: my sadness pile, my drama pile, and my leftovers-that-should've-stayed-left pile.
I rinsed the steak off, like i was washing away my sins, then tossed it in the bin with a gentle "Rest in peace, brave soldier."
Lights off.
Bedroom.
Pajamas.
I pulled my blanket over my face and whispered into the darkness, "Tomorrow, I will not be dramatic."
The universe laughed.
Because it knew me too well.