opposite. Her halo of dark, crinkly hair created the illusion of height, but her vaguely threatening aura multiplied that by five.
“What do you want?” she demanded.
Evan decided with some relief that, whatever else she was, she wasn’t scared.
“I brought you a lasagne.” He held out the dish.
She rolled her eyes heavenward. “How very… unnecessary.”
Then, before he could think of a retort, she turned and walked away.
Leaving the front door open.
After a moment’s hesitation, Evan stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
Her narrow hallway was plain and nondescript—except for the enormous stack of magazines piled against the far wall. That stack was about chest-height to Evan. It probably reached Ruth’s shoulders.
His brow furrowed, he stepped forward to take a closer look. He managed to discern that the magazines were actually comic books before Ruth’s voice called, “Kitchen.”
Right. She’d just invited him in; he could examine her comic book tower another time.
1A and 1B were mirrors of each other in layout, with the same bland magnolia walls and plain, thin carpet. Since Evan hadn’t had time to decorate, and Ruth hadn’t decorated at all, the two flats seemed eerily similar as he headed toward the kitchen.
Except for the fact that Evan’s flat didn’t feature dangerously high stacks of comic books scattered around at regular intervals.
He stepped into the kitchen to find Ruth standing by a kettle, its orange light shining. “I assume you want tea,” she said.
“I didn’t mean to intrude,” Evan began. “I just thought—”
“Thought you’d bring me more food.” she said the words without inflection, her face impassive.
Impassive, but pretty, he realised with a jolt. Glowing skin, doe eyes that were magnetic even when she glared. Her mouth was always slightly open, maybe because her front teeth were too big. He wanted to stare at her until he figured out the exact configuration of her every facial feature, but he wouldn’t.
She was already uncomfortable; he could tell. Her gaze fluttered around him like a butterfly, hovering but never settling. Then again, from what he remembered, she always looked like that. Maybe she was just a nervous person.
Shifting his weight, Evan tried to look less… huge. It probably didn’t work—there was no hiding 6 foot 3—but he tried anyway. “I really don’t want to bother you,” he said, putting the lasagne on her little kitchen table. “I can go.”
She ignored that statement completely. “How long are you going to play personal chef?”
Something in her tone was different; slightly lighter than usual. Evan looked up to find the hint of a smile on her lips. That almost-smile triggered an odd sort of warmth in his chest, soft and gentle. He smiled back. “I don’t know. Until I’m satisfied that you’re not developing rickets over here.”
“Are you always so meddlesome?”
He didn’t even have to think about it. “Yes.”
The kettle hissed, and she turned to open a nearby cupboard. It was mounted on the wall, and Ruth was so small, she had to rise up on her toes to grab the mugs.
When she turned back to face him, she rolled her eyes. Clearly, she did that a lot. “What are you smirking about?” she demanded.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
Like a fool, he blurted out, “You’re little.”
She snorted. “You’re disgracefully tall. What’s your point?”
“Disgracefully?”
“It’s indecent,” she said. “You can’t possibly need all that height. One sugar or two?”
“Three.”
She wrinkled her nose and repeated, “Indecent. Sit down.”
Apparently, Ruth Kabbah did not make requests; she gave orders.
Evan was okay with that.
He sat and watched as she poured the tea, retrieved milk from the fridge and sugar from its container. She wasn’t graceful. She was, in fact, the opposite of graceful. He worried for her safety once every five seconds at least. When she poured half of the hot water onto the counter, he was only surprised that she didn’t scald herself in the process.
“You okay?” he asked as she snatched up a cloth.
She grumbled in response.
When the tea was finally ready, she brought it over to the table and sat across from him. Because the kitchen was tiny, and the table a little semi-circle, they were close. Close enough for him to feel the presence of her legs beneath the table—even though they weren’t touching—with that odd, sixth sense people sometimes developed.
His mug was modelled to look like Spider Man’s face. Hers looked like a face too, only it was jet-black—bar a few strategic silver lines.
Evan pointed at the cup. “Is that Black Panther?”
She squinted up at him. “What do you know about Black Panther?”