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"More white bread." Her tone was neutral. "Classic."

"It works," I replied, pulling out the frozen pizzas. "It makes toast when treated properly. It makes sandwiches. It keeps you alive."

She nodded, setting it aside and diving back into the bag. She pulled out the bag of apples, the sack of potatoes, and finally, the three-in-one shampoo. She stared at the bottle.

"Is this... for the car?" she asked.

"It’s combination shampoo/soap," I took it from her and set it on the counter. "For humans."

"Right. Of course. Soap." She kept digging, her brow furrowing slightly. She moved the bag of frozen vegetables aside, checked the bottom of the bag, and then checked the other bag. "Did you happen to get any sparkling water? Or maybe some kale? I was thinking I could make a salad."

I stopped unpacking the frozen pizzas and stared at her. The woman was standing there in my oversized shirt, looking like a refugee from a grunge band and asking for sparkling water and kale.

The disconnect was almost impressive.

"Kate," I said, leaning my hip against the counter and leaning into her charade. "I’m a paramedic and firefighter. I don’t eat kale. Or drink sparkling water. I eat frozen pizza with tap water or maybe beer. But after your accident, beer is off the table today, okay?”

She looked up at me then, and the expression in her blue eyes softened into something warmer and harder to decipher. "I appreciate your help, Ben. Really. Tap water is fine. I actually... I haven’t had frozen pizza in a long time."

Twenty minutes later, the oven timer dinged with a cheerful, artificial chirp that sounded wildly out of place given the upcoming conversation. I pulled the pizza out and divided it in half onto two plates—mismatched, chipped ceramic I’d had since college—and carried them to the small two-top table by the window. The smell of pepperoni and oregano filled the small kitchen, a scent that was inextricably linked to every shift night, football game, and lonely Tuesday of my adult life.

Sutton-Kate had set the table.

I stared at it. She had found two paper napkins and folded them into triangular shapes that stood upright on the table. She had carefully placed the silverware (what little I had) around the empty spot for the plate. She had even filled two glasses with tap water and arranged them perfectly on the placemats.

"Nice," I said, setting the plates down. "Expecting the Queen?"

"Just habit." Sitting down carefully, she pulled her chair in, her posture instantly transforming. Her spine straightened, her shoulders went back, and she rested her wrists lightly on the edge of the table. I sat down opposite her and sprawled into my chair. I picked up a slice of pizza, folded it in half New York-style, and took a bite. It was hot, greasy, and tasted like salt and comfort.

She didn’t pick up the slice. She picked up her knife and fork. With the precision of a surgeon, she cut a small, triangular piece from the tip of the slice. She speared it with her fork, brought it to her mouth, and chewed slowly, her eyes closed as if savoring a fine steak. Then, she picked up her napkin, dabbed the corners of her mouth gently, and replaced the napkin on her lap.

I stopped chewing and stared. "Who taught you to eat pizza like that?"

She opened her eyes, confusion lining her brow. "Like what?"

"With a knife and fork. Like you’re afraid it’s going to bite you." I gestured with my folded slice. "It’s finger food, Kate. The whole point is that you don’t need utensils."

She hesitated, frowning at her fork as if realizing for the first time that it was overkill. "Oh. Right. Sorry. My... grandmother. She was very big on etiquette. ’A lady never touches her food,’ she used to say."

"Your grandmother sounds pretty old fashioned," I said. "You’re telling me she made you eat pizza with a fork?"

"She made me eat grapes with a fork," Sutton-Kate said, a dry smile touching her lips. "She was intense, but she loved me intensely too. And me her." She smiled and put the fork down. She picked up the remaining crust with her fingers, taking a small bite.

We ate in silence for a few minutes before she wiped her hands on the napkin and glanced around the room. She patted her dark hair, the wig, nervously. “So have you lived here for a long time?”

I shrugged. “My whole life. My family owns a resort here.”

Her eyes lit up slightly. "Your family owns a resort?"

"We do. Or my mother does. We all just... orbit it." I took another bite of pizza. "My brother Eli runs the dive shop at Sunset Siesta. They have live music at the brewpub sometimes. Tidal Hops. My brother Braden runs that. My sister Harper is the manager and another brother, Austin, runs the fishing charters."

She examined me. “But you’re a paramedic.”

I tried not to squirm. “I chose another route. So did our other sister, Brenna. She owns a bookshop here in town.”

Nodding, she took a sip of water. “Sometimes life takes you in unexpected directions.”

I wasn’t going to get a better transition than that. It was time.