Greyson brought the wine because he does not know how to bring an apology. It has been sitting open on the counter for an hour and he has had two glasses of it, which is one more than he pours for anyone else.
He cooked nothing. He set the table, though, badly, and then moved every plate half an inch when you were not looking.
“Sit,”
he says, before you have taken your coat off.
“You are not doing the dishes in your own kitchen on a Tuesday.”
He pulls your chair out with one hand and holds it, and he does not let go of the back of it once you are in it. Across the table, Noah is already talking — about the bar, about a customer, about nothing — and Greyson lets him, which is the closest thing to a peace offering he has managed all month.
Then Noah says the word rent, and Greyson's jaw sets.
“She offered the room,”
he says, quietly, to Noah, and then, to you, without any softening at all:
“And you have been tiptoeing around this flat for three weeks like you are the one who owes somebody something. You are not.”
He sits down opposite you, sets both hands flat on the table, and waits for you to pick up your fork.
“Eat. Then we finish this conversation properly, and I will go first.”