I set my computer to work and the rest of the day moves like honey—slow and golden, but slightly sticky. The rain hadn't let up, just shifted moods. Less apocalyptic now, more like a background hum. It tapped rhythmically against the windows, a sound that made the apartment feel warmer.

  Daniel comes and goes like the weather himself. He makes coffee, answers a few calls, disappears to the bedroom, reappears barefoot. Around lunchtime, he pops up and asks me if I want some leftover lentil curry. And as soon as he says that my stomach makes a deep growling sound.

  "Yum!, yes please."

  I set the table while he reheats the food. Moments later he brings out two steaming bowls. Slightly spicy, deeply savory, perfect cozy food for a rainy day.

  I glance at the windows. Rain still going, but calmer.

  "So what's the plan?" I say, putting on my mouth a piece of potato, bathed in creamy curry. "Are the guys coming anyway?"

  He nods toward his phone. "I checked—says it'll ease up around five. Everyone comes by car anyway."

  "True." I stir my food so I can grab a bit of everything. "I have a video call with Jessie and Dean at four, but it shouldn't last long."

  "Cool," he says, cleaning curry from his chin with a napkin. "The guys will get here around five-thirty. I'm making THE ravioli."

  That made me smile. "Oh, I love your ravioli."

  He grins back. "I know. That's why I'm making them."

  After lunch, I curl up on the couch with my laptop, fine-tuning the pitch deck until it feels airtight. The rain softened into mist, and the mist into silence, like the city had taken a deep breath. I stretch out on the cushions, just for a half-hour nap.

  Set up the alarm, close my eyes.

  I woke five minutes early, heart thumping and damp with sweat — the tail end of an episode. The tick tock was already fading, but it echoes somewhere in the base of my skull. I realize I forgot my meds in the morning. So I sat up slowly and padded to the kitchen to take them. As I pass the hallway, I catch a glimpse of Daniel entering the apartment with two paper bags. A sprig of basil sticks out of one like a green flag waving in the wind.

  "Hi babe, already up?" he asks, kicking off his sneakers.

  With the voice still sticky and kind of yawning "Yeah, I have the meeting with the guys, and I don't know why, but I feel so tired."

  He steps closer and touches my forehead with the back of his hand. The basil clung to the air, bright, herbal, almost electric, like the opposite of everything outside today.

  "You are a bit warm." He says, frowning slightly, now pressing his lips against my forehead.

  “I feel a bit heated to be honest.”

  "You should check your temp."

  I grab the thermometer and sit in the living room, armpit clamped shut. Across the room, Daniel is already unpacking ingredients. Chopping garlic like a man who's done this a hundred times.

  "You think you'll finish the pasta in time?"

  "Don't worry," he says. "The dough's already resting. I just need to roll and fold."

  He is focused in that Daniel way — casual but confident. He'd learned most of his cooking from his dad, who’s Italian-American and can make gnocchi blindfolded.

  Honestly, the ravioli’s were one of the first things that made me fall in love with him.

  I check my temperature. Thirty-seven point eight. Not great. Not awful, but enough to explain why I feel like my brain is wrapped in wet wool. I grabbed some medicine and swallowed it with water, hoping it would clear the fog before the call.

  I wait a bit and text the group

  Me: We ready to make this call?

  Jessie: Yep. Let's do it.

  No response from Dean.

  I take the call in the bedroom with the door shut. By the time Zoom connects, the whole apartment smelled like my grandma's house — garlic, olive oil, basil, and something toasted in the air.

  Jessie appears on screen, hair in a messy bun, a blanket over her shoulders like a cape. "Hey."

  "Hey. Any word from Dean?"

  She shakes her head. "I texted him yesterday. Nothing."

  "Same. I messaged him last night. Still not read."

  Her brows draw together. "That's not like him."

  We sit in silence for a second, both chewing on it.

  "We'll prepare for worst case scenario," I say finally. "If he doesn't show up tomorrow, we divide his section between us. It's annoying, but we can manage."

  "Yeah. — She agrees, though it didn't sound convincing — Hope he has a good excuse for making us worry like this! I can't believe he is doing this the day before the pitch."

  I know she is not mad, but frustrated. I try to calm her down. "Probably his phone died. Or he's working in a bunker with no Wi-Fi, and will just show up tomorrow like nothing happened."

  Jessie tries to smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Yeah. Probably."

  As we wrap up and divide Dean's part, I start to hear voices in the hallway—muffled laughter, Daniel's footsteps, the door clicking shut.

  Jessie smirks, but her voice is tight. "We're gonna do great tomorrow, right?"

  "We're gonna kill it," I say, more for myself than for her. "At The Studio at ten?"

  "At the Studio at ten." She confirms.

  We say goodbye, both trying to shake off the unease.

  I close my laptop and stare out the window. The storm had cleared, but inside, the sky hadn't shifted yet.

  I open the door of the room and the entire house smells delicious. I walk into the kitchen and find Daniel and Paul standing shoulder to shoulder by the stove, utterly focused. Paul has a spoon halfway to his mouth, tomato sauce steaming. The two of them looked like surgeons mid-procedure.

  "Ey, Paul! Nice to see you," I say, leaning against the kitchen island.

  "Eyyy, Emma!" He smiles. "Good to see you too. Daniel's letting me supervise the sauce, so you know dinner's safe."

  "I'd be nothing without Paul's elite palate." says Daniel adding things to the sauce. "I added a pinch of sugar this time," while stirring. "Try it now."

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Paul does as he says, and lets out a low, impressed hum. We all laugh.

  The front door creaks open, followed by shouts of “Yo!” and the unmistakable shuffle of men who’ve brought beers. Eric and Peter step in with grocery bags — beer, more beer, and a couple of baguettes someone’s already taken a bite of.

  "Hi guys!, you brought bread!" I get close to help, "you are my heroes."

  I snatch Eric's bag to cut the golden, crunchy, warm, just made baguettes.

  "Yeah, Daniel said something that in Argentina is a crime to eat pasta without bread." He says while I’m already preparing to cut the bread and take a bite myself.

  I smile. "Oh, yeah. We take pasta very seriously, it needs bread and grated cheese, and if you don't have those, you better cook something else."

  Daniel laughed "Always pan and queso rallado" he says in a very broken spanglish. (Always bread and grated cheese)

  We all gather around the island in the kitchen while Daniel let the sauce simmer. They opened the beers and I prepared some small of potato chips, olives, cheese and pickles, to placate everyone's hunger. (Appetizers)

  Eric is the only one who serves his beer in a cup, "Is Martin finally coming?".

  Daniel bites a pickle "Yeah, he just texted me, they are almost here".

  Peter rolls his eyes, with a bit of bitterness in his tone, "Only because he can bring his girlfriend, such a simp."

  I suddenly realize I haven't seen Ana since Daniel's birthday, like, six months ago.

  "You are using the term wrong" I say, already exasperated with Peter.

  He blinks. "What?"

  "Yeah, a simp is someone who does everything for a girl because he wants to have sex with her. He has the sex already, you are using term wrong"

  Paul snorts.

  "So, actually he just loves his girlfriend a lot." I finish lightly.

  Paul adds, smiling, "Not something you would relate to."

  We all laugh.

  Peter looks mildly annoyed. "Fuck off. I'd rather be single than merge my whole existence with someone else."

  Paul shrugs, "hey, it's a free country."

  The conversation moves to the living room and the topic shifts to the new vigilance at the metro.

  Eric says weirded out "They're adding facial recognition to like, 50 more subway stations"

  "They say it's for crime prevention, but it's giving Black Mirror." Peter is sitting on the couch, stretching his hand trying to call Greta’s attention. But she’s too busy with her food.

  I’m in the kitchen with Daniel cleaning a bit. He grabs my waist while I'm washing my hands in the sink. "Babe, can you open the door? Martin texted me that he is coming up."

  “Sure.” I dry my hands and go directly to open the door. I catch them getting out of the elevator. Ana appears first, with a long flowy white skirt , and a sand-colored tie-front top draping lightly over her shoulders.

  She’s distracted looking for something into her purse. “I don’t know where I put it.”

  "Hi guys! Long time no see!."

  She raises her view, and her face just lights up. "Hiiii" she comes to me with little skips and gives me a hug "Long time no see for real". She is so sweet, every time we see each other —which is rare— I always feel I should get closer to her.

  Martin trails right behind her, and also gives me a warm hug, "Hi Emm. How's everything?."

  "Everything’s good, everyone is here already." He has such a kind smile. I love the way they are always paying attention to each other. Even if they are on different sides of the room.

  Ana pulls a bottle out of her bag, "We brought some wine" she says winking. "I know you don't drink beer, and I honestly hate how it makes me feel so blotted."

  I grab the red wine and cradle it like a baby, "You are such a sweetheart. I'll open it and serve some for us"

  Martin raises his hand "I'm okay with beer, you guys can drink the wine."

  Ana and I exchange a grin.

  I go directly to the kitchen, and when I arrive at the living room with two glasses of wine, the guys have already finished their greetings and are talking about the government's new policy on immigrants.

  Paul is shaking his head outraged, "It's wild. He's really pushing this ‘mass deportation' plan again like it's 2016."

  Peter leaves his beer at the coffee table, "I mean — we shouldn't have illegal people in the first place."

  Eric looks at Peter "Yeah, but it's way too aggressive. Like ICE raids, detention camps, even military support? Full-on madness." And now he is looking at me, "Hey—actually, you're from Argentina, right? Is any of this stuff affecting you?"

  "Not really. My dad's American, so I have my papers and all that. I've been here since I was like, twelve." I swirl the wine in my glass. "Though I feel like I need to carry my birth certificate around, just in case someone asks why I pronounce "garage" weird"

  Eric looks concerned "You joke, but honestly? Wouldn't be surprised." Everyone goes a little quiet for a second.

  Paul, trying to lighten the mood, "Alright, someone say something dumb so we don't spiral into existential dread."

  Peter shares "The other day I found my neighbor feeding possums like they're pets. He even gave them names. He calls the biggest one Cuca."

  Laughter.

  I set the table with Ana and Martin, then join Daniel to carry in the plates. The ravioli are a work of art, soft dough, just the right chew, filled with ricotta and nutmeg and something else I couldn't place but wanted to write poems about. The tomato sauce clung to every edge like it’s in love with the pasta. The scent was outrageous: slow-cooked garlic, basil torn with fingers, and the tiniest back-kick of red pepper flake. Comfort with just enough drama.

  The plates land on the table and the room practically sighs.

  "This is... insane," Paul says after the first bite, already reaching for seconds like it’s muscle memory.

  Martin agrees, his mouth full. "Dan, marry me."

  Daniel wipes his hands on a towel. "Only if you say I'm pretty and laugh at all my jokes."

  I smiled into my glass. For a second, it’s easy to forget I've spent most of the day spiraling about Dean.

  Then the conversation starts to wander.

  "So I read this AITA thread last night," Peter started, wiping his mouth like he was about to moderate a debate. "Girl moves in with her boyfriend — he owns the place. He asks her to pay rent. She dumps him because she says it is not fair, I'm like… women are wild sometimes. Yeah she cleans and sh*t, but living for free? That's insane."

  Peter always brings these kinds of topics. Always giving red pill vibes.

  I swallow a bite of ravioli and blink. "Wait. Hold on. He owns the place, doesn't pay anything for it, and still wants rent from her?"

  Eric adds more graded cheese to his raviolis, "Yeah, I saw it. Said it was about fairness. Like, she'd be paying rent somewhere else anyways."

  Ana looks up from her pasta plate. "But if you love someone and invite them into your home, why would you charge them to exist in it? That's not a partnership — that's a landlord."

  Peter leans back in his chair. "She still has bills. Why does love suddenly cancel out rent? That's delusional."

  Martin raises an eyebrow. "But that's his choice. She's not asking him to pay her to clean or cook, is she? Relationships aren't contracts."

  Peter tries again. "But let's say it's flipped. If the girl owned the place and the guy moved in, everyone would say he was freeloading if he didn't contribute." I glanced at Daniel. Still quiet. Still chewing. This is a topic where he can share some insight. Had he never told them I own the apartment and he doesn't pay rent? Is he embarrassed about it? Or just… enjoying the shield of silence too much?

  "Contribute, sure," I say, leaning forward. "Groceries, bills, shared stuff. But calling it ‘rent' changes the energy. You're turning intimacy into a transaction. If the place is already paid off, why are you profiting off the person you supposedly love?"

  Peter laughs under his breath, like this was all very na?ve. "It's just adulting, Emma. No one lives for free."

  Ana counters, "You can love someone without billing them monthly. That's also adulting."

  Paul, who has stayed oddly quiet, finally mumbles, "I feel like if you're charging rent, maybe don't call it a relationship. Call it a sublet." That got a chuckle out of everyone.

  Martin nods, "Yeah, at the end of the day if you really love your partner, and you are in a situation that can make the other person's life easier, why wouldn't you?"

  Peter is clearly not done. "It's just dumb to expect to live anywhere for free. Man or woman. I'm not footing the bill for someone else's comfort just because we fuck. And the fact that she left him, is proof she didn't really love him, she is just chasing the easy life."

  I set my fork down, crossed my arms and tilted my head. "So, by that logic, I should be charging Daniel half the rent, right?" and I turned to Daniel, half dare half smile, "and prove if he really loves me."

  The table stilled for a second. Paul laughs. "You see? The roles are switched and I don't see Daniel like a freeloader."

  Daniel softly smiles at me "Also, you can't charge me rent, I pay in raviolis."

  Everyone laughs—of course they did. I laughed too, even though a small, pointed part of me is still annoyed at the fact he stayed so conveniently silent during all that conversation.

  The chat softly switches to less controversial topics and I start to pick up the table. Ana, Martin and Paul also get up. We were like a trail of ants coming back and forth with dirty plates, glasses, and the rest of cheese and bread.

  When we are heading back to the living room, Ana pulls me aside and very discreetly, does the universal sign of or at least that's what I got. I smile at her in complicity and we go through the hallway to the room walking stealthily like a cartoon.

  Once there I open one of the windows and a soft breeze comes in. We lean on the window ledge to smoke, I feel the chilled humidity on my face, and the smell of the past rain. She lights it up, smokes a bit and releases the smoke with a sight. "Oh my god, I needed that. Too much masculine energy in there, the air gets heavy."

  I laugh, "I know what you mean. Peter is a piece of work, but when some of the others start to support him, it can get tragic." We both laugh.

  "Luckily Daniel is good at defusing those situations." She says passing me the joint. "Are you guys doing okay?"

  Oh this is something I'm not good at, casual deep conversations. Should I be honest about the girl at the bar, and the frustrated sex, and the superficial politeness, or the increasing feeling that we don't love each other anymore, and we are just going through the motions of an empty relationship? Or should I just say what it seems? I smoke to give myself some time.

  "Yeah, we are doing okay. I mean, things here and there, but trying to figure it out" Ana feels really comfortable to be around, or maybe it's the wine, or the weed. I smoke again and pass it. "What about you guys? You seemed happy."

  She laughs, "I discovered Martin is cheating on me this morning."