A month passed faster than either of us expected.
At first, I had counted every day, reminding myself that this arrangement was temporary. It was nothing more than a practical solution to a family problem.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped counting.
Stan became part of my routine so naturally that I could hardly remember what living alone had felt like.
Every morning, I woke to the smell of fresh coffee.
Every evening, one of us cooked while the other cleaned.
If I worked late, dinner waited in the oven with a handwritten note telling me to heat it for three minutes.
If he noticed I looked exhausted, he never asked intrusive questions. He simply poured me a glass of wine, sat across from me, and let the silence do the talking until I was ready.
It was… comfortable.
Dangerously comfortable.
One Friday evening, I walked into the kitchen to find him humming quietly while making homemade pasta.
“You know,” I said, leaning against the doorway, “you’re making every future boyfriend look bad.”
He laughed without looking up.
“I’ll apologize to them.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He placed another plate on the table.
“They’ll have an unfair standard.”
I rolled my eyes.
“You sound awfully confident.”
“I make excellent pasta.”
“You do.”
“And decent coffee.”
“You definitely do.”
“I also fixed your washing machine.”
“I noticed.”
“And your garage door.”
“I noticed that too.”
He grinned.
“So really, I’m just stating facts.”
I couldn’t help laughing.
“You are impossible.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
Dinner stretched into nearly two hours.
We talked about movies, books, childhood memories, embarrassing school stories, and ridiculous office gossip.
It felt effortless.
Then, as naturally as breathing, I asked the question I’d been avoiding.
“So…”
He looked up.
“Yeah?”
“What did you do before all this?”
His smile faded almost instantly.
“I told you.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“You avoided answering.”
He slowly set down his fork.
“I worked.”
“What kind of work?”
“Business.”
“What business?”
He stared at the table.
“It’s complicated.”
“I don’t mind complicated.”
“You would.”
“Try me.”
He was quiet for several seconds.
Then he forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Another time.”
The conversation ended there.
Not because I wanted it to.
Because I realized pushing him would accomplish nothing.
Still…
The mystery lingered.
Certain little things continued to bother me.
Stan knew which wine paired best with expensive meals.
He recognized luxury watches at a glance.
When we walked through the financial district one afternoon, he casually pointed toward a skyscraper.
“They’ve renovated the executive floors.”
I looked at him.
“You’ve been inside?”
His expression froze for the briefest second.
“Years ago.”
“You’ve worked there?”
“Something like that.”
Again.
Half an answer.
Never the full story.
Another strange moment came when we visited the grocery store.
The cashier accidentally charged us twice for several items.
Before I could even check the receipt, Stan had already calculated the exact amount in his head.
“You overcharged us by forty-three dollars and sixty-eight cents.”
The cashier blinked.
“I… let me check.”
A minute later, she apologized.
He’d been right down to the last cent.
“You did that awfully fast,” I said as we walked toward the parking lot.
“I’ve always been good with numbers.”
“That’s more than good.”
He shrugged.
“I had practice.”
Again.
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