Jason returns from work

---Jason---

As I push through the frigid January air, my teeth chattering as I make the short walk from the Wheel-Trans drop-off to my front door. The cold seeps through my cote, finding every seam and gap despite the layers I've piled on. I've always run cold—one of those people whose hands feel like ice cubes year-round—but Canadian winters take it to another level entirely. By the time I reach my porch steps, I've lost feeling in my fingertips despite my gloves.

The key fumbles in my hand as I try to unlock the door. I can see it now—the brass surface, the teeth catching the winter sunlight—but my fingers are too numb to manipulate it properly. After several clumsy attempts, the lock finally turns with a satisfying click.

I push open the front door, and am immediately hit by the acrid smell of something burning. My heart speeds up as I drop my bag and rush into the house.

"Grace!" I yell, before remembering that I can actually see now to look for her—old habits die hard when you've been blind your entire life.

I hear a door open down the hall, and Grace emerges from the bathroom. She's wearing the clothes I left for her this morning—my gray sweatpants rolled up at the ankles and the navy blue long-sleeved shirt that's clearly too big for her frame. The sleeves hang past her fingertips, and she's folded them back several times to free her hands. The heavy outer jacket I gave her is missing, probably set aside somewhere given the warmth of the house. I'm momentarily surprised that her chest looks relatively flat under the shirt, then remember she must still be wearing that makeshift band thing she created yesterday. Realizing I'm staring, I snap my eyes back up to her face while hoping she didn't notice. Haveing the man who she's oathbound too ogling her is the last thing the woman needs, after all.

"Why does it smell like something's burning?" I ask, trying to sound calm rather than accusatory while suppressing another violent shiver. The house feels warm, but my body hasn't gotten the memo yet, appairintly.

Grace tilts her head slightly, her expression unchanged. "I attempted to make one of the sandwiches from yesterday. However, I may have done something wrong."

"Okay," I say, taking a deep breath. "Let's go see what happened."

I lead the way to the kitchen, Grace following silently behind me. The air gets thicker with smoke as we approach. When we enter, I see the air fryer with wisps of black smoke curling from its vents. The kitchen window is already open, which I'm guessing was Grace's attempt at damage control though the frigid air pouring in makes me shudder more violently.

"I placed bread and cheese in the device as you did," Grace explains, moving to stand beside me. "But I believe I may have set the timer incorrectly. Or perhaps your bread is different from the one you used yesterday."

I approach the air fryer cautiously and unplug it before opening the door at the front. A cloud of smoke billows out, revealing what looks like a charcoal briquette that might once have been a sandwich in the basket.

"Well," I say, trying not to cough as I wave away the smoke, "I think we've found the problem."

I grab a pair of tongs from a drawer and carefully extract the blackened remains, dropping them into the sink. The bread has been reduced to ash, and the cheese has melted into an unrecognizable, crusty substance fused to what's left though at least it's not stuck to the basket. Would have been a bitch and a half to scrape all that off.

"I think the timer might have been set a bit too long," I say, turning on the faucet to douse the still-smoking remnants. "How long did you set it for?"

"Forty-five minutes," Grace replies.

I turn to look at her, which I can do now so that's a thing. "Forty-five? The sandwich from yesterday only took like four minutes, Grace."

My lips twitch as I press them together, fighting the laughter building in my chest. I can feel my shoulders shaking slightly with the effort of containing it. My eyes dart between the charred sandwich corpse and Grace's utterly serious expression, which only makes it harder not to start howling and probably end with me falling over.

I take a deep breath through my nose, trying to regain my composure. A small snort escapes despite my best efforts, and I quickly disguise it as a cough, covering my mouth with my hand. Grace's eyes narrow slightly, and I'm certain she's spotted my poorly concealed amusement, but I can't help it. The contrast between her deadly serious demeanor and the comically cremated sandwich is too much.

I clear my throat, hoping she understands I'm not laughing at her but at the situation. "Sorry," I manage, my voice still tight with suppressed laughter. "It's just—that's quite a difference in cooking time."

Another violent shiver runs through me, and I hug myself, trying to generate some warmth. "God, I'm freezing. Mind if I close this window now that the immediate fire danger has passed?"

Grace steps forward and closes it herself, her movements efficient and precise. "You experience temperature sensitivity," she observes. It's not a question but a statement of fact.

"Yeah, I've always been like this," I grunt, my teeth still chattering slightly. "Gets worse in winter though. My circulation's terrible—poor heat distribution to extremities, according to the doctors. Nothing medically wrong, just really anoying in a country that's frozen most of the year." I flex my fingers, trying to encourage blood flow. "I'll just make some tea to warm up or something. Least I got over not likeing hot drinks last year, so that's a thing that's a thing now."

As I fill the kettle, Grace watches me with that intense focus that's becoming familiar, and perhaps strangely comforting. "I noticed there's no meat in your cold-storage device," she says. "I wished to include it in my meal preparation."

I pause, frowning. "No meat? There should be bacon and some chicken in there. I didn't move anything."

"I searched thoroughly," Grace insists. "The meat products are gone."

"That's... weird," I say, setting the kettle on its base and switching it on. "I definitely didn't move them, and I was kind of rushing this morning after sleeping through my alarm." I smile at her. "Thanks for making breakfast, by the way. That sleeping draft worked wonders—first solid night's sleep I've had in ages."

"You're not angry about oversleeping?" Grace asks, her head tilting slightly in that curious way of hers.

"God no," I laugh. "Without that stuff, I probably wouldn't have slept at all. I'll take 'slightly late' over 'exhausted zombie' any day." I rummage through a cupboard for tea bags. "Though I admit I was a bit disoriented waking up with, you know, actual vision. Almost screamed when I woke up and saw my own fist, so that's going to take some getting used to."

Grace nods, processing this information. "The women at the dog enclosure implied there were... connotations... to my presence here." She says the word 'connotations' carefully, as if testing unfamiliar territory. "I do not understand what these connotations are."

I nearly drop the mug I'm holding. "Connotations? What exactly did they say?"

"They asked if we were 'dating' when I explained I was staying in your dwelling," Grace says. "When I clarified that you had provided shelter when I required it, they exchanged looks and made comments about you giving a woman who 'looks like me' a key to your house."

My face feels like it's on fire despite my lingering chill. "Oh. Um. Those connotations." Because of fucking corse it would come to that, why I don't take Dawson to the park till later in the dam day. Granted, I didn't think Grace would, well i figured Grace being Grace, she would just leave. Quickly.

The kettle clicks off, and I pour steaming water over a tea bag, buying myself a few seconds to compose a response that won't sound completely mortifying. Or creepy.

"They think we're..." I make a vague gesture with my free hand. "Romantically involved. Because typically, in this culture, when a man and woman live together, especially if they're not related and it's a relatively new arrangement, people assume there's a romantic or sexual relationship."

Grace's expression doesn't change, but something in her eyes shifts. "I see. Because I am female and wearing your clothing, they assumed mating behavior."

I choke on nothing again, and once again coff to clear my throat. "That's... a very direct way of putting it, but yeah. Something like that."

"Is this assumption problematic?" she asks. "Should I have corrected them more forcefully?"

"No, it's fine," I say quickly, stirring my tea with perhaps more vigor than necessary. "People are going to think what they want to think. It doesn't really matter." I take a tentative sip, the hot liquid sending welcome warmth through my core. "Though I guess if you're going to be here for a while, we should probably figure out a better explanation than 'I found her nearly frozen on my doorstep and now she lives here because of a death oath.'"

A small furrow appears between Grace's eyebrows—the closest thing to a frown I've seen on her face. "Do you find me attractive, Jason?"

I nearly drop my mug, hot tea sloshing dangerously close to the rim. My brain stalls completely for a good three seconds before kickstarting again with what I can sware is a muted pop feeling inside my head.

"I—what?" I stammer, playing for time. After all, well I do. She fixed my sight, and she's litirally the first woman i've ever seen. Pathetic and probably concerning as that sounds. But, if I tell her that she's going to have to deal with it, and she's done enough dealing with shit today, thankyou very much. Also, the deathoath puts a screeching hault on anything that probably wouldn't happen anyway, since I'm just me and she's, well, Grace. "Where did that come from?"

"Your discomfort discussing potential romantic connotations," Grace explains, her gaze level and unwavering. "It suggests either you find me repulsive or attractive. Given your physiological responses when I am in proximity, I suspect the latter, but I prefer direct confirmation to inference."

God, her directness is both terrifying and oddly refreshing. I set my mug down carefully, both buying myself precious seconds to form an actual response and so I don't spill said mug of hot tea all over myself during this conversation.

"Yes," I admit finally, meeting her eyes. "I do find you attractive. But that doesn't mean—"

"You do?" Grace interrupts, genuine surprise flickering across her features. "I am too sharp, too dangerous, too competent to be found attractive. I am designed to be feared, not desired."

Something in her words makes my chest ache. Who told her that? Who made her believe that being strong and capable made her unworthy of attraction rather than enhancing it? Why am I not more concerned I want to burry a sutibly large and heavy knife into their skull with malitious glee? Or turn them into ssteaks?

"That's not how attraction works," I say instead. "At least not for me. Intelligence, capability, confidence—those things are attractive. You being good at what you do doesn't make you less desirable. If anything, it's the opposite." I don't continue that the directness, and not looking at me like some kind of project doesn't hurt either, because Grace appears to be haveing enough trouble processing what I just told her without that little tidbit of mostly self-pitty on my part.

I take a deep breath, steadying myself. "But none of that matters right now, because I won't act on it. This death oath thing creates a power imbalance that I'm not comfortable with. You feel obligated to me, and I won't take advantage of that. Ever."

---Grace---

Jason's scent shifts dramatically as soon as the words leave my mouth. The initial shock—sharp and electric—gives way to a complex bouquet of emotions I struggle to catalog. Desire flares bright and hot, unmistakable in its intensity before being quickly followed by confusion, its more muted, sour notes. Anger rises next, though I cannot identify its target until the scent shifts again, directing the acrid burn inward—he is angry with himself.

More confusion follows, then another pulse of anger, this time directed toward me. That anger is swiftly overwhelmed by something powerful and warm—a desire to embrace me that radiates from him like heat from coals. The intensity surprises me; I've detected affection in human scents before, but never with such force, such clarity of intent. Never directed towards me. It's specific too—not general desire but the precise wish to wrap his arms around me and pull me against his chest.

Fear follows immediately—concern about my boundaries, worry that such contact would be unwelcome. His scent turns bitter with shame as he continues standing there, unblinking, staring at me with an intensity that would make most humans uncomfortable. I find I don't mind it. His gaze seeks to understand, not possess.

Another surge of rage flares, followed by that same powerful desire to embrace me, then more shame—specifically about wanting to breach boundaries I've established. The urge to flee rises, unmistakable in its sharpness, before everything settles into resigned acceptance.

Throughout this entire emotional journey, Jason hasn't moved or spoken. The entire process took less than sixty seconds—a remarkably intense roller-coaster of feeling that I doubt he's even consciously aware of experiencing.

Finally, he shrugs—a deliberately casual gesture that contradicts everything his scent has revealed. "Do you want to learn how to use the air fryer properly? So we can avoid any more sandwich cremations?"

The shift in topic is so abrupt I almost question whether I've misread everything. But no—the lingering notes of desire and respect remain clear beneath his attempt at normalcy.

"Yes," I agree, curious to see what follows. "I would find that valuable."

Jason moves to position the air fryer where I have a clear view, arranging his body with obvious care.

"Wait—can you actually see what I'm doing?" he asks, turning toward me. "I'm not great at positioning things so people can see them clearly. Usually I just ask... since, you know, being totally blind until yesterday, I never had to think about sight lines before." He shrugs, that gesture somehow conveying conversations in the single shift of his shoulders.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"I can see adequately," I confirm after studying the angle. "However, your left arm was blocking the view of how the metal pieces align with the wall receptacle. A slight adjustment to your position would improve visibility."

"Like this?" He shifts his stance, angling his body differently.

"Better," I acknowledge with a nod. "I can now observe all relevant components."

A smile spreads across his face—genuine, not the forced expression humans often use to mask discomfort. He seems genuinely pleased by my direct feedback. Most humans I've encountered prefer comfortable lies to honest assessment, yet Jason appears to value clarity over comfort. Interesting.

"Thanks," he says. "I'm still figuring out how to... well, exist visually, I guess. Let me know if I'm blocking your view again."

"I will inform you immediately if visual obstruction occurs," I assure him. The promise is simple enough to keep.

He returns his attention to the air fryer, his movements carefully considered as he picks up the plug. "First, the power source," he explains. "This connects to an outlet to draw electricity—that's the power that makes it work." He points to the metal prongs. "These metal parts go into these slots in the wall. You have to match them up—see how one's wider than the other? That's so you can only plug it in one way."

I move closer, studying the mechanism. It's primitive compared to some devices I've glimpsed, yet elegant in its simplicity. "How does the power travel through the metal? Is it like vigger, flowing through specific channels in the body?"

"Sort of, yeah," Jason says, surprise coloring his scent. "Electricity flows through conductive materials—mostly metals—kind of like how your vigger flows through... whatever it flows through. The important thing is, never touch these metal prongs when it's plugged in. The electricity can jump into your body and hurt you."

He demonstrates the proper technique, holding the rubber portion well away from the metal parts, making sure I understand the distinction between safe and dangerous contact points. His movements are deliberate, designed for maximum clarity rather than efficiency. Not once does his scent shift toward impatience or superiority despite explaining something so basic to him.

"Now for the actual cooking part," he continues, opening the front and removeing the basket. "This basket is where the food goes. For a sandwich, you'd put it right here in the center." He places fresh bread slices with cheese between them in the basket. "Then you close it, like this."

I track each movement precisely, memorizing the sequence. Jason's teaching method is unexpectedly effective—showing rather than merely telling, breaking complex processes into discrete steps. In my world, those who possess valuable knowledge rarely share it so freely, preferring to guard such advantages.

"Now, the controls," he taps the digital display. "This button turns it on. These knobs adjust the temperature—for sandwiches, about 180 degrees Celsius is good." He demonstrates each control, identifying them clearly: "The timer is the one that clicks when you stop turning it. And these arrows set the timer. For a sandwich, four minutes is usually enough though, like I did yesterday, I set another timer that I know works."

"Why did I believe it required forty-five minutes?" I ask, genuinely puzzled by my error.

"Maybe you confused it with something else?" Jason suggests, his tone lacking any mockery though his sent flares with amusement, though it's not directed at me. "Or maybe the display was showing something different than what you thought? Appairintly that happens sometimes." he shrugs, a gesture that he seems to do a lot, "the hole, blind since yesterday thing kind of doesn't give me a good idea on displays and stuff."

"Possible," I concede. "The markings on your devices are unfamiliar."

"That's okay. Learning new things takes time," he says, pressing the start button. "See this light? It means it's cooking. And you can check on it halfway through by opening the door and pulling out the basket—it automatically pauses when you do that. Also, it vibrates, and you know it's cooking by that too." He nods toward the humming machine.

After two minutes, he demonstrates how to check the food's progress using protective coverings he calls "oven mitts," showing me where they're normally stored and explaining their purpose.

"Always unplug it when you're done," he emphasizes once the sandwich is finished. "And never put anything metal inside it while it's cooking. Metal and electricity... they don't get along well."

"Like mixing certain alchemical components," I suggest. "Some combinations create violent reactions."

"Exactly like that," he agrees, his scent warming with satisfaction at my understanding. "Now, any questions?"

"Several," I admit. "What is electricity, precisely? Why must the metal pieces match specific holes? What happens if water touches this device while active? Could it be used as a weapon?"

Surprise flickers across his face at my last question, alongside his sent flareing with amusement, though once again not directed at me before something, strange. Grimmer, though nothing I've encountered before. Despite this, he answers without hesitation, explaining electrical safety, circuit function, and the dangers of water-electricity interaction. Throughout his explanation, I note the complete absence of condescension in both his manner and scent. He doesn't treat my questions as stupid or obvious, nor does he emphasize the knowledge gap between us. Instead, he shares information as one might share food around a campfire—freely offered, no debt incurred.

This approach is deeply unfamiliar. In my world, knowledge is currency, carefully hoarded and strategically deployed. Those with information leverage it over those without. Yet Jason simply... gives. Expects nothing in return. The realization creates an uncomfortable warmth in my chest, like a banked fire but within my ribcage that I cannot name though does not feel, un-pleasent.

His refusal to exploit the power dynamic between us—both as my knowledge source in this world and as the holder of my death oath—is equally strange. Power exists to be used. That is the natural order. His deliberate choice not to wield his advantage disturbs me, upends my understanding of how people function.

And yet... there is something unexpectedly pleasant about it, like perfectly cooked meat after a long hunt or the warmth of a campfire when the tracking is done and only the cooking and eating remain. A satisfaction I don't quite understand but find myself reluctant to reject.

When he finishes his explanation, I place my hand briefly on his forearm—a deliberate choice to initiate contact, to acknowledge what he has shared.

"Thank you," I say simply. "I now understand enough to avoid damaging your equipment or causing injury."

"You're welcome," he replies, something soft and unguarded flickering across his face. "And hey, the sandwich turned out perfectly this time."

It has, I realize. And somehow, that small success feels more significant than it should.

Dawson, hearing the word sandwhich, lifts his head from where he's been lying on the kitchen floor. His tail thumps against the tile twice before he settles back down, apparently determining the conversation doesn't involve food or walks and so isn't worthy of his interest. Least he's got his priorities streight.

"The canine was adequately behaved," I state, leaning against the counter. "He attempted to pull me toward the... dog park... immediately upon exiting the dwelling. I maintained control by adjusting the tension on the leash mechanism." I demonstrate the technique with my hands. "When a neighboring woman with her own canine approached, Dawson initiated friendly contact protocols."

"Martha from three doors down?" Jason asks. "Short woman, talks a lot, has that big fluffy dog?"

I nod once, noting Jason's accurate description of the neighbor. "She directed us to the dog park, which is a designated area where canines are released from restraints to engage in social interaction and energy expenditure activities."

Jason's lips twitch again. "Yeah, that's... pretty much what a dog park is."

"The behavior of the animals was chaotic but followed discernible patterns," I continue. "Dawson integrated successfully with the pack, engaging primarily with a smaller black canine in chase behaviors. The humans, however, were..." I search for an appropriate term, "invasive in their questioning."

Jason winces. "Oh god. What did they ask you?"

"They were primarily concerned with our relationship status," I explain, observing how Jason's face immediately flushes with color. "I explained the factual nature of our arrangement, but they appeared to draw alternative conclusions."

Jason runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I've noted he employs when uncomfortable. "Yeah, sorry about that. People in neighborhoods like this... they get bored and start drama where there isn't any."

"After departing the dog park," I continue, "we explored the creek area. The ravine system east of the elementary school contains a flowing water source approximately three meters wide at its maximum point. It provides adequate cover, natural resources, and tactical advantages should they become necessary."

Jason pauses mid-bite, blinking at me. "Tactical advantages?"

"Yes," I confirm. "Multiple exit routes, tree cover for concealment, elevated positions for surveillance, and a reliable water source. Should your concerns about an 'apocalypse' manifest, this location would serve well as an initial survival position."

Jason coughs, nearly choking on his sandwich. "Wait, you remember me mentioning that? That was just me being dramatic. We're not actually expecting an apocalypse. Probably."

I tilt my head, studying him. "Preparation is never wasted effort. You work at a survival school, yet claim to have no real concern for survival scenarios?" I find this contradiction puzzling. "Nevertheless, I have mapped the area extensively. The primary water source follows a northwest to southeast flow pattern, with a depth varying between 0.3 and 0.7 meters. Multiple game trails suggest small wildlife presence, though urbanization has reduced larger predator populations."

Jason sets down his sandwich, something soft shifting in his expression. "You did all that for me? Mapped out a survival location?"

"It is practical information," I state, unsure why this particular detail has affected him. "You have provided assistance to me in this world. Even without the death oath, I would be..." I pause, searching for the correct term, "displeased if you died due to inadequate preparation."

A smile spreads across Jason's face – not the amused one from earlier, but something warmer. "That might be the nicest thing anyone's said to me all week. 'I'd be displeased if you died.'"

I fail to see the humor, but I continue my report. "The route from this dwelling to the creek involves approximately 2.3 kilometers of walking. There are multiple approach vectors, though the path behind the elementary school provides the most direct access with minimal visibility to residential structures."

Jason's eyes widen slightly. "You really have mapped everything, haven't you?"

"It is what I do," I explain simply. "In my world, knowledge of terrain, resources, and potential threats is essential for survival."

"And here I thought you were just walking the dog," Jason says, shaking his head with that strange smile still on his face.

"Multi-tasking is efficient," I state. "Dawson received adequate exercise and social interaction while I gathered intelligence."

Jason takes another bite of his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. "Did you meet anyone interesting at the dog park? Besides Martha and her interrogation squad?"

"No individuals of tactical significance," I reply. "Though I noted the dynamics between the human observers. They appear to form social hierarchies based on conversational dominance rather than demonstrable skills. It is an inefficient system."

Jason laughs outright at this, the sound surprisingly pleasant. "You've just described suburban social dynamics perfectly."

I consider this assessment, finding it satisfactory. "We encountered several other humans on the return journey, but none initiated significant interaction. Dawson began showing signs of fatigue approximately 1.7 kilometers into the exploration, so we returned directly to the dwelling rather than continuing surveillance."

"He's probably not used to that much exercise," Jason admits, glancing down at the dog. "Rebecca usually just takes him around the block a few times."

"The animal has adequate endurance and good recovery," I observe. "With proper conditioning, his stamina could be significantly improved."

"Are you offering to train my dog?" Jason asks, eyebrows raised.

I consider this. "It would be a productive use of time while I remain here."

I pick up my sandwich and take a bite, noting the texture is lighter than the one from yesterday. While it lacks the savory depth I associate with proper food, the cheese adds a satisfying richness. Not as good as yesterday's bacon version, but adequate for replenishing energy.

"How'd you sleep last night?" Jason asks, leaning against the counter. "Couch can't have been too comfortable."

"It was sufficient," I reply, swallowing another bite. My neck has indeed been unusually stiff since waking, but such discomfort is tactically irrelevant. "I've slept on frozen ground with only pine boughs for insulation. Your 'couch' is luxurious by comparison."

Jason studies me for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he's attempting to determine whether I'm being truthful. Without commenting further, he walks to a nearby closet, retrieving a thick rectangular object covered in fabric.

"Here," he says, placing it on the couch. "Pillow. So your neck doesn't hurt as much tonight."

I glance between him and the object. "How did you know my neck was stiff?"

He shrugs, that casual lifting of shoulders that communicates more than words sometimes. "It's a couch. They're not designed for sleeping. Everyone gets a stiff neck." His expression shifts, something almost gentle crossing his features. "Pillows are nice. Makes a difference."

I nod once, acknowledging the information while noting this strange tendency of his—offering assistance without being asked, without expectation of reciprocity. In my world, such behavior would mark someone as weak or manipulative. Here, with Jason, it seems to be neither.

I finish my sandwich methodically, making sure to capture the crumbs that fall onto the plate. Waste is inefficient. When I'm done, I hold the empty dish, uncertain of proper protocol.

"Where do plates go after use?" I ask.

"Dishwasher," Jason replies, gesturing toward a panel beneath the counter I'd previously assumed was merely decorative. He steps forward, pulling the panel down to reveal rows of racks with specialized compartments. "It's a machine that cleans dishes automatically. Beats washing by hand."

"Show me," I request, moving closer to study the mechanism.

Jason demonstrates how the device opens, explaining the function of each component with patient clarity. "Plates go here on the bottom rack, cups and glasses up top. Cutlery in this basket." His hands move with increasing confidence as he explains, his earlier awkwardness giving way to the simple pleasure of sharing knowledge.

"And how does it clean?" I ask, examining the spray nozzles mounted inside.

"Water and soap, basically," Jason explains. "There's special dishwasher detergent that goes in this little compartment here." He opens a nearby cabinet, retrieving a small box. "These tablets have the soap inside. One goes in per wash cycle."

He unwraps one of the small discs, showing me how it fits into a designated compartment in the door. His movements are deliberate, clearly designed to make the process easy to understand.

"Then you just close it up, and press this button to start—"

Without thinking, I reach toward the control panel. Jason's hand gently closes around my wrist, halting my movement.

"Wait—"

He freezes, his scent shifting dramatically as he realizes what he's done. Shame blooms immediately, its bitter notes overwhelming everything else as he quickly releases me and steps back.

"I'm so sorry," he says, his voice tight. "I didn't mean to—I completely forgot—" He runs a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture I've come to recognize. "You said not to touch you, and I just did exactly that. Again."

What surprises me most is what's missing from his scent—fear. There's no anticipation of retaliation, no bracing for physical response. Only genuine remorse for crossing a boundary I had established.

"We shouldn't run it yet," he explains, still flushed with embarrassment. "It uses a lot of electricity and water, so it's better to wait until it's full or at least run it when electricity is cheaper after peak hours." He shrugs slightly. "I don't fully understand the power grid economics, but dad was very clear about it."

His casual admission of ignorance continues to intrigue me. In my world, to acknowledge lack of knowledge is to invite exploitation. Yet Jason admits his limitations freely, without apparent concern.

"I know what it's like, sort of," he continues, his voice quieter now. "When people ignore what you've asked for. When they touch or grab or 'help' without permission." A wry smile crosses his face. "Though I can't just stab them when they do it, which honestly sounds more efficient sometimes."

The attempt at humor is evident, though his scent carries undertones of old frustration—experiences accumulated over years of unwanted contact.

"Acknowledged," I say finally. "You were attempting to prevent me from activating the device prematurely. The touch was not aggressive or threatening in nature." I consider for a moment before adding, "I would prefer verbal warnings in future."

Relief floods his scent as his shoulders visibly relax. "Absolutely. I can do that." He closes the dishwasher with a soft click. "We'll run this tonight when there's more to put in."

I nod, absorbing this new information about resource conservation. Another difference between our worlds—the careful rationing of power and water, not for survival but for economic efficiency. Strange priorities, yet logical within their own context.

"Thank you for explaining the devices," I say, my words precise and measured. "Your instruction methods are effective. You explain without mockery, even when addressing concepts that must seem elementary to you."

Jason blinks, surprise flickering across his face. "Well, yeah. Why would I mock you for not knowing something you've never encountered before? That would be..." He frowns, searching for words. "Cruel. And pointless."

His response is simple, yet it challenges everything I understand about knowledge hierarchies. The straightforward decency of it creates that strange warmth in my chest again—uncomfortable yet not entirely unwelcome.

"I should clean up the cooking area," I state, deliberately changing the subject to more practical matters.

"I'll help," Jason offers, already reaching for a cloth. "Two sets of hands make quick work."

I watch him begin wiping down the counter, his movements easy and practiced despite his recent acquisition of sight. Perhaps some skills transcend sensory limitations—muscle memory and spatial awareness guiding hands that have performed these tasks countless times in darkness.

The simple domesticity of the moment strikes me as profoundly alien. In my world, survival demands constant vigilance, every action weighed against potential threat. Yet here I stand, cleaning cooking surfaces alongside a man who apologizes for touching my wrist and worries about my comfort while I sleep.

I do not understand this world. But I am beginning to think I might want to.