I blinked. “You don’t have a microwave?”
“No.”
“…Why?”
“They’re inefficient,” he said without hesitation. “They ruin texture, heat unevenly, and encourage lazy habits.”
I stared at him.
He held my gaze like that was a completely normal thing to say.
“You’re kidding.”
There was the faintest shift at the corner of his mouth, like he almost smiled. “Yes.”
Then he turned, opened a cabinet, and pointed. “It’s in there.”
I walked over and pulled the pantry door open.
Microwave.
I looked back at him. “Who puts their microwave in a cabinet?”
“Saves counter space,” he said mildly. “And I rarely use it.”
“I'll change that,” I joke. "I live on hot pockets and ramen."
That almost smile showed again, just for a second. “You’ll change your mind after you try my cooking.”
I huffed a quiet laugh, shaking my head as I shut the cabinet. “We’ll see.”
Some of the tension in my shoulders eased without me meaning it to. He wasn’t warm, but he wasn’t completely rigid either.
That helped.
He continued the tour without missing a beat, showing me where things were, how the parking worked, where I should leave my car, what time he expected the place to be locked up at night.
Then—
“Curfew is ten on weekdays. Midnight on weekends.”
I stopped walking. “Curfew?”
He glanced back at me. “Yes.”
“I’m twenty one.”
“And you’re staying in my home.”
I crossed my arms, leaning slightly against the wall. “I appreciate you letting me stay here, I really do, but you don’t have to take my dad’s whole keep her in line thing that seriously.”
His expression didn’t change.
At all.
“Those aren’t your father’s rules,” he said evenly. “They’re mine.”
That set my teeth on edge. And something in me immediately wanted to push back and see if it actually held. But I could think of anything to say as he held my gaze.