The oven beeps. Loud, insistent — like a referee stepping in just before a punch lands.

  But not before Sam flashes that smug smile and performs his little theatrical act. “Oh, should I feel honored that you remember my presence amid all that… commotion?”

  Oh, how charming. I’ve heard that tone before. Critics who treat me like an award-winning mannequin. Directors who cast me just for the sharp jawline. Co-stars who fake friendliness while whispering jokes about me backstage.

  At least Sam has the decency not to pretend. He looks at me as if you’d look at an old poster for a terrible movie. Forgotten. Irrelevant.

  That doesn’t mean it’s any less annoying.

  Sensing the frustration building in me, he latches onto the oven timer like it’s a life raft and promptly gets up. It should be a distraction, but I decide I refuse to let him have that relief.

  “Don’t interfere,” I whisper to Ella before following him.

  If he wants to provoke, fine.

  “Oh, absolutely,” I mimic his overly dramatic tone. “After all, how could I possibly forget such a… distinctive presence?”

  Ella muffles a laugh, holding Zoe in her arms as the two of them watch like they’re front row at a reality show.

  Sam blinks slowly at me. The bastard doesn’t even bother reacting. Just turns to the lasagna like I’m a peripheral blur.

  I grit my teeth, resisting the urge to make him choke on that damn lasagna since it’s apparently more interesting than I am.

  “Must be hell traveling alone, huh?” I shake my head, pretending to feel bad for him.

  “I’m not alone.” He glances at the dog lying by the table, then lets his gaze drag over me — slow and calculated. “But I’d say better alone than in bad company.”

  “Makes sense. This way, you don’t have to learn basic manners.”

  “Exactly. Now move.”

  He tries to step past me, but to my satisfaction, he hesitates before even brushing against me. The bastard is disgusted. Like touching me would contaminate him.

  That blatant repulsion sends a jolt of adrenaline through me. Some childish instinct kicks in, and I shift slightly to the side — just enough to reinforce the blockade. Sam narrows his eyes, calculating how much patience he has left.

  “What?” I relax, feigning innocence, waiting for that flicker of irritation — waiting for him to actually give me a reason to enjoy this.

  “Move,” he grits out.

  “It’s still pretty hot.” A flimsy excuse, but no one here is playing fair. I’m not moving.

  He takes a deep breath, pulls open a drawer, and grabs an oven mitt — fully expecting me to step aside.

  When he leans in to grab the dish, confident I’ll move, he finds out I’m a mountain.

  “I know what I’m doing.” His fist clenches. “Don’t worry, I’m not some clumsy little prince who trips and falls into a running chainsaw, unlike certain people.”

  “I am not clumsy. I do my own stunts, I have perfect coordination,” I declare, smug. “If I fell, it was because I was trying to help you. Which, honestly, was a mistake. But what can I say? That’s just who I am. Did you know I was carrying wipes for you? To clean your glasses? Because I, unlike some people, am a good person who tries to help for the right reasons.

  Unlike you, who — if you’re not outright regretting helping me — only did it because you felt obligated by social convention.”

  “I don’t usually regret what I do.” Sam’s voice is level, but I see his fingers tighten against the table’s edge. “I just figured it wouldn’t be fair to others if I let someone suffer just because I found their company unbearable.”

  My patience crumbles.

  He’s so convinced I’m awful that it makes me question things. “Have we met before?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Because your hatred feels personal.” What could I have possibly done to him?

  “I think I’d remember.” He curls his lip in disdain, fanning the flames of my irritation.

  “Then why are you being such an ass to me?”

  “Seems like the people who do know you have their reasons for despising you. Luckily, I’ve avoided that honor.”

  “At least they’d have valid reasons. Not just some stupid prejudice.”

  He lets out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Prejudice? And what oppressed minority does the poor victim here represent?”

  “There’s more than one kind of prejudice.” The moment I say it, I catch the way his smirk widens — too pleased, too calculated.

  “You’re just pretending to misunderstand so you can get under my skin,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “And you know damn well you’re wrong, which is why you keep dodging the subject.”

  “I know that your inflated ego might make this hard to process, but I have no interest in knowing you.”

  “And your limited mindset might make it hard to process, but being sociable and learning to appreciate different companies could actually broaden your horizons.”

  “No, really? In that case, we should totally get to know each other better.” He clasps his hands together in a sickeningly exaggerated display of friendliness. “Now move.”

  “Despite letting the manipulative fake persona take over, it’s a start.” I smile, genuinely, just to highlight my emotional superiority over his childish behavior.

  “Believe it or not, I don’t give a damn about you. You are not the center of the universe.” His voice is flat, but there’s an edge to it.

  “And broad prejudice? Everyone has it. The moment you lay eyes on someone, you’ve already made a judgment before even knowing them. Now move.” He wrinkles his nose, then briefly considers pushing me aside — but stops himself.

  “Make me.”

  “You’re so childish.”

  “Oh, I’m the childish one? You’re the one too disgusted to touch me. So prejudiced that ignoring me isn’t enough.”

  For the first time, I see his jaw clench, a flicker of something different passing through his eyes. A warning…

  “Oh… yeah?”

  He tries to kick my shin, but I’m faster. I step forward, throwing him off balance. On reflex, I grab the collar of his shirt. Even as he stumbles, Sam refuses to steady himself on me, gripping the edge of the table instead — giving me the perfect opening for a clean punch.

  Right as the tension is about to snap into a full-blown fight, Wally, completely oblivious, chimes in.

  “Your truck is cool. Pretty interesting.” He ruffles a towel through his hair, admiring the ceiling like nothing is going on.

  Ella and Zoe, wide-eyed gossip fiends, stay silent but watch intently.

  Sam takes advantage of the distraction to step back.

  “The whole point is that it’s the opposite,” he mutters, straightening his shirt, ignoring me like nothing happened.

  And honestly, that pisses me off more than a punch would have.

  I step forward again, challenging, but he throws up a hand, palm out — a clear warning to back off.

  “It’s meant to be uninteresting.” The irritating man finishes with a pleasant smile, directed at Wally, who lifts an eyebrow at the tension between us.

  “The lasagna’s ready,” Ella announces before her husband can ask any questions.

  “Why is it supposed to be uninteresting?” Zoe asks.

  I barely register her words, because that’s when I feel it — Sam pushing against my side, just enough to get me to move.

  When I glance down, I see the sharp knife he’s using to do it.

  I jump back. “Are you insane?”

  “To pass by a common truck.” He doesn’t even look at me, effortlessly pulling the dish from the oven like he didn’t just threaten me with a weapon. Only a cold-blooded psychopath could pull that off.

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  The rich, intense aroma hits me as I watch the bubbling sauce, the crispy cheese, and the steam rising from the tray. My mouth waters as he sets both dishes down on the stove.

  The dog whines desperately at his feet.

  “Help yourselves.” He places the knife on the counter and heads toward the doorway.

  I grab the weapon before he can easily reach it again.

  While Ella prepares plates for herself and Zoe, Sam crouches down, serving two bowls labeled Furioso and Felina.

  And I shove the knife deep into the back of the cabinet under the sink.

  Wait. He’s not eating? It’s poisoned.

  “Furioso? The German Shepherd?” Wally asks, stepping into line, suddenly concerned about the dog.

  “Yes.” One less risk — slightly smaller than a wild wolf.

  “Is he aggressive?”

  “No.”

  “But the name, combined with his size, probably helps keep people away.” Ella guesses, amused like she’s known this man for years. She returns to her seat.

  Then Sam turns with a mysterious little smile, straightens up, and claps his thigh once. The dog immediately stands at attention, looking ready to attack.

  But the second Sam strokes his head, the massive creature flops onto the floor, rolling onto his back, belly up.

  Laughing, Zoe hops off her chair and rushes to pet him.

  “Where’s Felina?” she asks, glancing toward the couch.

  But instead of coming from the furniture, a tiny white head peeks out from the large pocket of Sam’s pants.

  It was there the whole time?

  With both animals served, he reaches over, guiding Zoe to wash her hands before they return to the table.

  He’s such a sweetheart—loves animals, takes care of kids, tries to kick me, then threatens me with a knife.

  I head back to grab my plate while he finally serves himself.

  “More cheese?” Sam asks, handing Zoe a grater. She eagerly sprinkles cheese over her lasagna.

  “I love cheese.”

  He picks up a massive block of it, his hand instinctively moving toward the spot where he left the knife. When he doesn’t find it, his fingers search around the counter, but I keep my focus elsewhere.

  Accepting his loss, he reaches under the cabinet above the sink. From there, his entire collection of knives drops neatly into his palm, arranged on a sleek magnetic rack.

  “Whoa… what’s this huge one for?” Zoe gasps, impressed.

  “It’s for cutting bone. But be careful — I left my favorite multipurpose knife around here somewhere, and it’s not in its place. Just sharpened it the other day.”

  Oh, what a shame that it’s missing.

  “You have a favorite knife?” Zoe ask.

  “The material is top-tier, I take great care of it, and it's really sharp.” He grins proudly at Zoe, who looks completely fascinated.

  This man pressed that knife against my stomach. Not the blade, but way too close for comfort.

  “Bet your barbecues are great,” Wally remarks.

  “You could totally kill someone with that,” Zoe has an epiphany. “Like a ninja.”

  “Never had to, but if I did… well, this baby slices clean through meat like butter.” Sam smirks, his eyes scanning for the knife with an almost appreciative glint, as if picturing just how neatly it would carve someone up.

  And yet, knowing this, he used the knife to make a way.

  Before I even register it, a nervous laugh escapes my throat. It would be so damn funny if he made that joke and actually turned out to be a murderer.

  “What’s so funny, Uncle?” Zoe leans over the table, curious.

  That I should be terrified of him. But I’m not. I’m suspicious. I’m nervous. He’s threatened me, he has every red flag of a psychopath, and he acts like one, but I’m not afraid of his truth. He’s weird, but maybe I’m the crazy one.

  “I think he stashed it under the sink. Weird place for him to put it.”

  Sam checks, then sighs, placing the knife in the sink, and rubbing the back of his neck before pinching the bridge of his nose.

  That’s right. You’re the one losing your damn mind.

  I grab my fork, and I am finally ready to eat.

  “I must’ve been really distracted,” he mutters, resigned, as he washes the knife.

  I yank my hand back the second I grab the hot baking dish.

  Sam barely holds back a laugh. “Still pretty hot,” he mimics me.

  Anger clogs my throat. I don’t know what to say, but I have to say something. Instead, I step closer, towering over him. He knows I’d win in a fight.

  Raising a single eyebrow in defiance, he slides his knife between us — swift and precise — only to disguise the threat by smoothly slicing through the cheese.

  I take a slow, deep breath, making damn sure my smile looks as fake as possible. “Thanks for the concern.” I ignore his silent warning, feeling oddly at ease now that I realize I don’t actually fear him. Because I don’t see him as a real threat.

  ***

  Lost in the appreciation of a surprisingly delicious meal, the minutes slip by. Ella keeps most of the conversation going, with my occasional comments about our trip, the usual complications, and the food. She effortlessly draws thoughts out of Wally and even Sam.

  Meanwhile, I sit through the mildly unbearable tension of being next to Sam. He still refuses to look at me, dodging any movement that might risk even accidental contact. And it tempts me — just to see him squirm, I should hug him. Just for fun.

  He answers Ella, gets surprisingly engaged in Zoe’s endless stream of educational questions, remains politely distant yet responsive to Wally… and completely ignores me. Like I don’t even exist.

  Yet, somehow, I know I’m being watched. He’s hyper-aware of me, cautious in every movement.

  “Trying to remember where you’ve seen him before?” Wally asks, just as Sam absentmindedly forks another bite into his mouth.

  Wally wasn’t around when we talked about the gas station earlier. Doesn’t matter. For him to ask that, Sam must’ve been staring at me.

  I’m not crazy for feeling the weight of his hateful gaze — especially when I’m not looking.

  “I watch movies,” Sam mutters, not exactly rude, but distant enough to make it clear he doesn’t care. For Wally’s sake, at least.

  “My uncle is handsome and famous,” Zoe announces proudly.

  Sam exhales, begrudgingly agreeing. “Yeah.”

  Great. Now I’m even more uncomfortable. Because everyone definitely noticed him staring at me.

  “As you already know, my cousin is an actor. I’m a sports doctor, and my husband’s a physical education teacher. What about you?”

  “Mechanic.”

  Ella discreetly glances around, subtly assessing something. If I had to guess, she’s wondering if he comes from money.

  “Where are you from?” she asks next.

  I watch him, waiting to see if he’ll snap and throw us one of his death glares.

  “My father was Korean,” he says, taking a sip of wine. “Are you all from around here?”

  He doesn’t look Asian. He didn’t answer the question. And then he immediately shifted the focus. He’s definitely hiding something. But at least he didn’t threaten Ella like he did with me.

  “I was born in Alice Springs but grew up in Perth,” Wally replies.

  “My cousin and I were born in Melbourne and stayed there until college in Sydney.”

  “My uncle lives in Hollywood,” Zoe adds proudly.

  A strange pressure builds in my chest — a mix of joy that she sees me with pride, embarrassment, and an odd sense of guilt. Does even Zoe see me as less of a real person?

  “JJ was finishing his business degree to take over his parent’s real estate company when a talent scout discovered him,” Ella continues, casually narrating my entire life story. Not that it’s anything he couldn’t Google.

  “You were the family business poster boy growing up, weren’t you? The whole ‘happy home for a happy family’ thing?” Ella teases, making me roll my eyes.

  “Before leaving, though, he introduced me to Wally,” she adds.

  “He met Wally first?”

  “At a dinner for Sydney’s most notable people.”

  Sam looks at us, feigning fascination.

  “I was a professional athlete,” Wally explains. “Injured my knee before I even made it big. Now I teach.”

  “The only constant in life is change. That makes adaptability crucial.”

  The man beside me says it so smoothly, with such conviction, that I almost can’t believe those words just came out of him.

  “I think you’re the first person who hasn’t said they’re sorry for me.”

  “What’s the point of feeling sorry? Why regret something when you’ll never really know if the other path was better? You didn’t live it — you have no way of knowing.

  Regretting a version of the future that never happened is a complete waste of time. Feeling sorry for you would be the last thing I’d say.”

  He finishes with his gaze locked on Wally, who opens his mouth but says nothing. Then, just like that, the man’s expression softens into something almost playful. “And when did you come into the picture?” he asks, looking at the little girl.

  “They met, and I was born.”

  “A little later,” Ella laughs.

  “Yeah, they got married, then I was born. I’m four.” She holds up her fingers. “And I’m starting school!”

  “What do you do at school?”

  “I draw, sing songs, play, and learn to read and count. I can already count to twenty.”

  “Really? Well, if you can count to twenty, you can count to a hundred.”

  Oh. I see. He’ll dodge personal questions all day, but if it’s about teaching something? He’s all in. He refuses to share basic facts about his own life, yet he’ll explain anything — especially when it comes to Zoe’s endless, exhausting curiosity.

  Wally motions for me to help clear the table while the other three remain fully engaged in conversation.

  “Where’s the dish soap and sponge?” I ask, trying not to interrupt. The table is already clear, just needs washing now.

  Still focused on Ella and Zoe, the man gets up, and opens the cabinet under the sink — but instead of handing me the supplies, he pulls open a dishwasher.

  Should’ve seen that coming.

  “Mama, I can count to a thousand!” Zoe gasps, amazed at herself.

  “Apparently, you can. Congratulations.” Ella chuckles before turning back to our host. “Thank you so much for dinner, for helping us, and sorry for the trouble.”

  “It’s no problem.”

  “It was delicious. Would you mind sharing the recipe?” Wally asks.

  “I… bought it,” the man admits, clearly embarrassed. “You cook? That’s great. I cook a little too, but I can’t take credit for the lasagna.”

  He actually looks nervous. What is it? Is it because he poisoned us and now needs the antidote? Or does he really hate the idea of taking credit for something he didn’t make?

  The dishwasher hums to life, and I wait for the usual flicker in the lights. Nothing.

  “How do you have enough power to keep everything running?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Every trailer I stayed in during shoots — if it wasn’t hooked up to an external power source, we always had to ration electricity or keep gallons of fuel for the generator.”

  “Solar panels. Energy efficiency.”

  Of course. I bet if Zoe had asked, he’d be giving her a full rundown on how off-grid power systems work.

  The silence that follows is almost familiar now — his standard response to me speaking. Then, noticing Zoe watching the rain outside, he glances at us.

  “Uh…” He drums his fingers on the table, looks at the storm again, and hesitates. “Do you… want to stay here for the night? I can—”

  “No.” The answer is instant, too sharp even though I'm still annoyed at him.

  I force a more reasonable tone. “I mean, that’s not necessary.”

  We’ve already overstayed our welcome.

  “We don’t want to impose,” Ella says smoothly, covering Zoe’s mouth just in time to muffle what was definitely a different opinion. “You must be tired. Goodnight!”

  “Goodnight,” Sam says, following us to the door.

  Sam: The walking definition of "do not engage."

  ?? JJ: Absolutely engaging, just to be annoying.

  ?? Zoe: Adorably oblivious to the potential homicide happening right in front of her.

  ?? Ella & Wally: Just trying to have a peaceful meal.