Alexander had always believed his house reflected who he was: organized, controlled, elegant.
That belief lasted exactly three minutes after he walked through the front door.
His jacket slipped from his fingers and landed dramatically on the floor, where it stared at him like an accusation.
"I'll pick you up later," he told it.
The jacket did not look convinced.
Alexander kicked off his shoes, one flying neatly to the rack, the other disappearing under the couch like it had made a run for freedom. He sighed. Long day. Too long. And somehow, despite everything, his mind betrayed him by replaying Cynthia's laugh from earlier—bright, unexpected, and annoyingly sticky.
"Focus," he muttered to himself, loosening his tie. "You're alone. Peaceful. No chaos."
The universe heard this and laughed.
The moment he stepped into the living room, his phone buzzed.
A message from Cynthia.
Cynthia: Hope your evening is going well 😌
Alexander face softened
He stared at the screen as if it might explode.
Was that… a smiling emoji? With closed eyes?
He cleared his throat, sat down carefully, then stood up again because sitting suddenly felt too intimate. He typed, erased, typed again.
Alexander: Yes. Very calm. Just got home.
He read it. Too boring.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Alexander: Home safe. Attempting to relax.
Why did that sound like he was under attack?
He groaned and threw the phone onto the couch, only for it to bounce and land face-down on the floor.
"Fantastic," he said. "Excellent form."
He picked it up, checked the screen. Still intact. Unlike his dignity.
Deciding food would solve everything—because food always did—Alexander headed to the kitchen. He opened the fridge with confidence.
The fridge stared back at him.
Inside was a bottle of water, half a lemon, expired yogurt, and a mysterious container he did not remember creating.
He closed the fridge slowly.
"…I am a grown man," he told the kitchen. "With a house."
The kitchen offered no sympathy.
Fine. He would cook,sarah is not around, How hard could it be? He had watched cooking videos. Briefly. On mute.
He pulled out ingredients with determination: pasta, tomatoes, spices whose names he could not pronounce. He set everything on the counter like a contestant on a cooking show who had already lost.
"Simple," he said. "Pasta."
Thirty minutes later, the kitchen smelled like confusion.
The pasta had somehow stuck together into one massive noodle. The sauce was too thick, too thin, and aggressively red all at once. Alexander tasted it, paused, then stared at the ceiling.
"This is… bold."
He drank water. A lot of water.
His phone buzzed again.
Cynthia: Relaxing how? Reading? Music?
Alexander glanced at the stove, where the sauce was now making threatening bubbling sounds.
Alexander: Cooking.
He waited.
Three dots appeared.
Cynthia: Oh?
Alexander laughed out loud.
Cooked was a strong word.
Alexander: I'm… learning.
He nearly felt proud of that response until the smoke alarm went off.
The noise was loud. Aggressive. Judgmental.
"No no no—stop—STOP," he shouted, waving a dish towel wildly. He jumped, nearly slipped, and managed to hit the alarm with the broom handle.
Silence.
He leaned against the counter, breathing heavily.
"Victory," he whispered.
His phone buzzed again.
Cynthia: Everything okay?
Alexander looked around at the disaster—splattered sauce, abandoned pasta, smoke lingering like disappointment.
Alexander: Yes. Minor battle. I won.
A pause.
Then:
Cynthia: I wish I could've seen that
Alexander smiled before he could stop himself.
He plated the food anyway, because pride demanded it, and took one bite.
The fork clattered onto the plate.
"We are ordering food," he announced firmly.
As he waited for delivery, Alexander moved to the living room, collapsing onto the couch. The silence felt different now—less lonely, more… thoughtful.
He picked up his phone again.
Alexander: What about you? How's your night?
The reply came quickly.
Cynthia: Quiet. I'm at home too. Trying not to overthink things.
Alexander frowned slightly.
Alexander: Overthinking what?
Three dots. Gone. Then back again.
Cynthia: Life. People. Decisions.
He smiled softly.
Alexander: Overthinking is overrated. I tried it once. Nearly burned my house down.
She sent a laughing emoji. Then another.
Cynthia: You're strange, Alexander.
He chuckled.
The doorbell rang, saving him from further self-reflection. He paid for the food, brought it inside, and opened the container like it was a sacred treasure.
The smell alone was comforting.
He ate on the couch, relaxed now, occasionally glancing at his phone.
Cynthia: If you ever cook for me, I'm bringing fire extinguishers.
Alexander laughed so hard he nearly choked on rice.
Alexander: Deal. But only if you promise not to judge.
Cynthia: No promises.
He leaned back, smiling, staring at the ceiling.
His house was still messy. The kitchen was a disaster,thanks he had a maid.
But for the first time in a while, Alexander felt… light.
Funny how a quiet night, bad cooking, and one unexpected person could turn chaos into something warm.
He glanced at his phone one last time before setting it down.
Alexander: Goodnight, Cynthia.
A moment passed.
Cynthia: Goodnight, Alexander
He smiled to himself, turned off the lights, and let the silence settle—this time, comfortably.