Ledi almost dropped the chicken thigh she’d been seasoning. When she looked at him, he was leaning back against the window molding. His fingers stroked his beard, and for a moment he looked like The Thinker, but dipped in a smooth dark chocolate shell and, judging from the folds at the crotch of his pants, packing a bit more heat.

“Yes,” she said carefully. This was a new thing for her, and she didn’t want to make any sudden movements. But she would push him harder; there was no need to give him the benefit of the doubt. “And there’s also the gaslighting.”

“Gaslighting?” He looked quizzically at the light switch in the kitchen.

“It’s when you point out something that upsets you, or you try to set boundaries, and the other person tries to make you feel like you’re overreacting or it’s all in your head. Like when I tell Brian it’s not fair that he’s offloading his work on me, and then he acts like I’m the one being difficult.”

“I thought that was called being an asshole,” Jamal growled. “This Brian is an asshole.”

Ledi laughed; somehow she could laugh about it now that Jamal sat looking so angry on her behalf.

“And yesterday I was just another man making things harder for you,” he said. “I was the asshole. I don’t like that.”

“It wasn’t great for me either, my guy,” Ledi said. She’d pushed and instead of revealing himself for the fuckboy he was, he’d surprised her. “Just don’t blame other people for your mistakes and stop embellishing your résumé and you’ll be all right.”

His low laugh seemed to caress her even though he was across the room and even though she was feeling a surge of residual anger at him as she recalled his behavior at the Institute.

“How apt,” was all he said in reply. “Do you want me to take care of this co-worker? So that he doesn’t bother you again?”

Ledi’s head whipped around. Had he really just casually dropped that into the conversation? “I thought you said you weren’t a killer.”

“I said I wasn’t a serial killer. This would be a one-off thing.” The corner of his mouth stretched up into a grin, and she relaxed.

“But seriously, he has made you afraid to refuse him because you fear for your career. I have associates who could make him understand that he should also fear for his.”

Was she supposed to feel slightly giddy that a near stranger was leveling threats at her co-worker? Surely there was something wrong with her.

“Ummm, I’m gonna have to go with no thank you, though I appreciate the offer.”

“Hmph. Well, I’m glad that you’re not afraid to say no to me,” he said. “Maybe next time he tries to tell you what to do, you should summon the Naledi who fired me in no uncertain terms.”

“Maybe I will,” she said. She took the recipe from his hands and scanned it. Rinse chicken thighs. Sear. Melt butter. It was like following experimental procedure, but with more delicious and edible results.

She glanced over to find Jamal staring at her.

“Where did you learn to cook?” he asked suddenly. “From your parents?”

She couldn’t tell if he was being purposely nosy or just making idle conversation.

“I don’t have parents,” she said bluntly.

“I invited a divine being over for dinner? Brilliant. We need some wine to go with this, if you want to work your magic on the tap water.” He smiled a little, but it was the weird, tight smile people deployed when something you said had worried them. She realized too late that he wouldn’t be around long; she could’ve just lied and said yes and been done with the conversation. Now she’d have to talk about that.

“Well, I did. Then I didn’t. I was too young to cook when they were around. I don’t even remember what my favorite food was as a kid.”

Or much of anything about my childhood.

“Your parents left when you were very young?” Jamal’s accent made the words seem heavier somehow, like something from a Shakespearean tragedy instead of her everyday life.

She put on water for the quinoa. Salted it so she wouldn’t forget when the excitement of the boil distracted her.

“They died.”

She’d underestimated how tired she was. That was the only thing that could explain why she’d just blurted out her sad orphan story. She hated talking about it, and couldn’t even remember the last time she had.

“Oh.” He sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry.”

His voice had gone deep and strained, as if their death meant something to him. Most people were brusque and changed the subject, allowing her to follow their lead. It didn’t bother her. Her emotions were at pH 7.0 when it came to her parents—she’d made sure of it. But the sincerity of Jamal’s apology nudged something inside of her, changing the balance that she had maintained so well.

“Car accident. I barely remember it. Or them,” she said, shrugging away his kindness as she stirred the food.

“That is quite unfortunate.” When she looked at him, hoping her glare would remedy his nosiness, he was staring down at the ground, lost in thought. “And I assume you had no relatives to take you in.”

A pigeon sat on the rail of the fire escape outside the window behind him, tilting its head and staring as it schemed how to get at their meal.