#daniel sharman

Trying to cook something new was awful.

Objectively, undeniably awful.

It had started with confidence, the dangerous kind that comes from watching one baking video and thinking, That looks easy. Twenty minutes later, your kitchen looked like the aftermath of a small, flour-based explosion. Measuring spoons were scattered like casualties across the counter. A thin white layer of flour clung to every surface, soft as snowfall but far less magical. There was melted chocolate streaked along the edge of a bowl, dripping slowly in a way that felt accusatory. Even the recipe card, propped up bravely against the toaster, seemed to glare at you with passive-aggressive disappointment.

The oven hummed steadily, a low mechanical reminder that time was passing whether you were ready or not. Every few minutes it gave a sharp little beep, as if clearing its throat to say, You sure about that temperature? You weren’t. You hadn’t been sure about anything since step three.

But trying to cook something new while you were in love?

That was a million times worse.

Because the problem wasn’t the flour or the measurements or the way your batter looked slightly too thick and slightly too suspicious. The problem was that Isaac was there. Close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him even when he wasn’t touching you. Close enough that the air felt charged, like static before a storm.

He leaned casually against the counter as if he hadn’t completely rearranged your nervous system just by existing in the same square footage as you. His arms were folded loosely over his chest, one ankle hooked over the other, posture deceptively lazy, but there was nothing lazy about the way he watched you. His shoulders were relaxed, broad and steady beneath the soft fabric of his shirt, and his hair fell in uneven waves over his forehead like it had never once considered behaving. The kitchen light caught in the pale gold of his eyes, warming them, softening the natural sharpness of his cheekbones and the faint hollow beneath them. Even without the candles lit, the room seemed to glow around him, like it understood before you did that this night was different.

He had always looked at you like this.

At breakfast, when the kitchen still smelled like coffee, scrambled eggs and your mother moved around the stove in practiced motions. When Scott inhaled protein like it was oxygen. When you sat at the counter in soft pajamas, barely awake, fingers wrapped around your mug as steam curled lazily toward your face. Isaac would pretend to focus on his plate, but his gaze would drift. To the way you tucked your hair behind your ear. To the sleepy crease between your brows when the coffee was too hot.

At dinner, too. When everyone was exhausted and you gave up on cooking and ordered pizza instead. When you’d sit cross-legged on the couch, arguing lightly with Scott about toppings, rolling your eyes in mock offense. Isaac would watch the way you reached for a napkin before anyone else thought to. The way you automatically handed him a slice without asking what he wanted because you already knew. The way you wiped sauce from your thumb absentmindedly, unaware of how his gaze would linger there for half a second too long.

And in the mornings, the worst ones. The dangerous ones. When you’d hurry down the hallway fresh from the shower, hair damp and clinging to your collarbone, wrapped in nothing but a towel and irritation because Scott had used all the hot water again. Isaac would be stepping out of his room at the same time, and the air between you would go tight. Charged. His eyes would flick away out of respect, but never fast enough to pretend he hadn’t seen you. Never fast enough to hide the way his heartbeat would spike, something you pretended not to notice, even though you always did.

He had been quietly charmed by you long before either of you dared to name it.

Living in the same house had given him access to versions of you no one else saw. The sleepy, messy, domestic, unguarded pieces. The soft hum you made when you were concentrating. The way you talked to yourself when you thought no one could hear. The small, nurturing habits that slipped out without permission. He carried those observations like secrets. Like treasures.

And now, tonight, you could feel his attention tracing every movement you made in the kitchen.

The air felt thicker under it.

You bit down on your lower lip as you reread the same instruction for the fourth time, eyes skimming over the words without absorbing them. Your fingers tightened slightly around the recipe card, leaving faint indentations in the paper. You tapped the measuring cup against the side of the bowl—once, twice—though there was no reason to. The metallic clink echoed too loudly in the quiet house.

“You’re doing that thing,” he said lazily.

You didn’t look at him. “What thing?”

“The frown.” His voice was closer now. “The ‘I’m going to defeat this brownie through sheer stubbornness’ frown.”

You scoffed, but your mouth betrayed you by twitching upward. “It’s not stubbornness. It’s precision.”

“Mm.” He shifted behind you in the narrow space between the counter and the fridge. His arm brushed yours as he passed, entirely too deliberate to be accidental. “Sure.”

The contact was small. Barely there. But it sent a bright, electric shiver straight up your spine. Your breath hitched before you could stop it.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

He didn’t sound sorry.

Your heart reacted instantly, thudding hard against your ribs like it was trying to expose you. And of course, he heard it. He always did. You saw it in the slight tilt of his head, the faint curve of his lips. Werewolf hearing was unfair. There was no hiding the way your pulse spiked every time he stepped into your space, every time his hand hovered just at your waist as though he was testing his own self-control.

You pretended very hard not to notice the way his eyes darkened when your heartbeat stuttered.

Cooking for him would have been intimidating enough on its own. That alone was already a dangerous undertaking, letting him taste something you’d made, something shaped by your hands, something that required care and timing and attention. But cooking something heart-shaped? Something so aggressively symbolic it might as well have come with a handwritten confession baked into the center? That was emotional self-sabotage at its finest. A heart wasn’t subtle. A heart didn’t say, oh this was just what the pan looked like. A heart said I thought about you while measuring flour. I thought about you while preheating the oven. I thought about you enough to willingly risk humiliation over dessert.

And he was standing right there.

Devastatingly handsome. Unfairly calm. Existing in your kitchen like he belonged there, like he hadn’t quietly infiltrated every soft corner of your life already. The sleeves of his shirt were pushed up just enough to expose his forearms, the subtle flex of muscle when he shifted making your brain short-circuit in ways that felt medically concerning. He looked comfortable. At home. Like this—you flustered, flour on your cheek, aggressively whisking batter while trying not to combust—was his favorite show.

And the house was empty.

That was the real problem.

No television murmuring in the living room. No background noise to dilute the tension. No sound of Scott pacing upstairs. No clatter of your mom’s keys hitting the bowl by the door. No interruptions. Just the steady hum of the oven warming behind you, the faint scrape of ceramic against the countertop, the subtle rhythm of both your breathing in the same space.

The quiet felt intentional.

Thick.

For once, there were no watchful eyes. No hovering possibility of footsteps. No need to measure the distance between you in safe, brother-approved increments. No pretending you weren’t acutely aware of the way his gaze softened when you smiled at him. No careful choreography of almost-touches and strategic separation on the couch.

No protecting your secret.

Because that was the unspoken rule, the thing you both carried like contraband. If your mom found out? She’d be kind, probably. Concerned. Protective in that gentle but immovable way she had. There would be talks. Boundaries. “We trust you, but—” speeches that ended in new house rules.

If Scott found out?

Isaac would never emotionally recover.

There would be pacing. There would be intense eye contact. There would be that older-brother-alpha-werewolf energy paired with a deeply unnecessary monologue about respect and responsibility and how he lives here. There might be actual printed guidelines. There would absolutely be a threat about curfews despite none of you being twelve.

Worst case scenario? They’d make Isaac find another place to live.

The thought alone made something twist in your stomach.

Because him living here meant breakfasts. It meant passing in hallways. It meant late-night conversations in the kitchen with the refrigerator light glowing softly in the dark. It meant belonging.

And right now, in this fragile quiet, there was no one to interrupt you.

For once, you could kiss him in the kitchen without worrying about who might walk in.

The thought unfolded slowly, dangerously.

You could step forward, close the distance that had been simmering between you all evening. You could grab the front of his shirt and pull him down until his mouth found yours, warm and just slightly hesitant at first before deepening. You could feel his hands slide to your waist, pressing you back gently against the counter until the cool edge bit faintly into your hips.

You could kiss him in the hallway, halfway to your room, laughter still clinging to your lips. Push him lightly against the wall, fingers curling into his shirt while his breath caught. The house silent around you except for the quiet, involuntary sound he’d make when you kissed him again.

You could drag him into the corner near the pantry, that exact corner where you’d once stood far too close but not close enough. Where your shoulders had brushed and neither of you had moved away. Where the air had shifted and thickened and neither of you had dared to break the tension because footsteps had echoed upstairs.

There would be no footsteps tonight.

The thought alone made your pulse spike again.

Isaac’s eyes flicked to you immediately.

“Okay,” you said, setting it down with slightly more force than necessary just to steady your hands. “It’s…in the oven. It’s officially out of my hands now.”

Isaac straightened from where he’d been pretending not to stare at you the entire time. “So,” he said lightly, “either it’s going to be really good or it’s going to poison us.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder. “You are not allowed to joke about that after I almost burned myself for you.”

“For me?” he echoed, eyebrows lifting. A slow, teasing smile spread across his face. “Wow. I feel honored.”

“Don’t,” you warned, grabbing the nearest dish towel and swatting at his arm.

He caught it easily, of course he did, and used it to tug you half a step closer. Not enough to trap you. Just enough that you felt the warmth of him, the quiet steadiness in the way he looked at you.

“Hey,” he said, softer now. “I’m kidding. It smells good. Really good.”

The sincerity in his voice made your stomach flip. Praise from him always felt heavier than it should have, like it meant more. Like he meant it more.

You turned away before he could see the way your face warmed, reaching instead for the candles you’d hidden behind the coffee maker earlier. You lined them up carefully along the center of the table, striking a match and watching the tiny flames flicker to life one by one.

The transformation was immediate.

The messy counters faded into the background. The flour looked less like chaos and more like evidence of effort. The shadows softened. The kitchen—ordinary, familiar, lived-in—suddenly felt intimate. Golden light danced across the walls, caught in Isaac’s eyes, reflected in the glass of the oven door.

It didn’t look chaotic anymore.

It looked intentional.

Romantic.

Like something out of a movie where the girl pretends she’s not nervous and the boy pretends he doesn’t notice, but they both know.

Isaac went quiet.

You felt it before you saw it, the shift in him. The teasing ease melted into something steadier. He watched you as you pulled out the chairs, smoothing the tablecloth with flat palms as though you were trying to press your nerves into the fabric. You adjusted the forks so they aligned neatly with the plates. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. You told yourself this was normal. Casual. Not the culmination of you pacing your room for twenty minutes earlier wondering if this was too much.

When you finally looked up, he was staring at you like the room had fallen away.

“What?” you asked, suddenly aware of every inch of yourself.

He shook his head slowly and moved toward the chair across from you, lowering himself into it with an almost careful grace. “Nothing. I just—” He hesitated, brows drawing together slightly as if he was sorting through thoughts he wasn’t used to saying out loud. “No one’s ever done this for me.”

Your heart softened so quickly it almost hurt.

You sat down across from him, elbows resting lightly on the table, the candlelight warming your skin. “Done what?” you asked gently.

“This.” He gestured vaguely, almost embarrassed by the sweep of his hand. “Valentine’s. Dinner. Someone actually…wanting me here.”

There was a pause. The kind that felt heavier than silence.

“My mom used to cook, I guess,” he continued, voice lowering. His gaze dropped to the table, tracing the grain of the wood like it was easier to focus on that than on you. “I don’t even really remember it clearly. Just…that she did. And after…” He swallowed. “After that, I don’t remember anyone making something for me. Like this.”

The candlelight flickered between you, catching on the faint tension in his jaw.

You didn’t think, you just reached across the table, your fingers brushing his. The contact was gentle, barely there, but he stilled immediately, like even that small touch grounded him. His eyes lifted to meet yours, vulnerable in a way that made your chest ache.

“Well,” you said softly, trying to keep your voice steady, “I’m not very good at it. And the brownie might come out completely wrong. It might be undercooked. Or burnt. Or…structurally confusing.” You gave a small, nervous smile. “But I wanted to try. For you.”

His throat bobbed when he swallowed.

“You didn’t have to,” he murmured, voice almost rough.

“I know,” you said. And you meant it. “I wanted to.”

For a second it felt like the whole house was holding its breath with you.

Then the oven timer went off.

The sharp beep shattered the quiet, loud and startling against the softness of the moment. You both jumped, then laughed at the same time, a little breathless, like the spell had cracked just enough to let you breathe again.

Isaac squeezed your hand once before letting go, the pressure deliberate and grounding. “This is my first Valentine’s,” he admitted after a second, almost sheepishly. “Like…an actual one.”

You blinked. “Mine too.”

Something warm bloomed across his face at that, a slow smile that reached his eyes. “Guess we’re doing okay, then.”

The oven beeped again, impatient now.

“I’ll get it,” you said quickly, pushing back your chair before he could move. You crossed the kitchen with purpose, oven mitts slipping over your hands as you opened the door. A wave of warm, chocolate-sweet air rushed out, wrapping around you instantly. You carefully lifted the pan out, the metal warm in your grip, and set it down on the stove.

It wasn’t perfect.

The heart shape was slightly uneven, one side a little puffier than the other, the edges not entirely symmetrical. But it was unmistakably a heart. Dark and soft in the center, slightly cracked along the top in a way that looked almost delicate.

Isaac stepped up behind you, close enough that you felt the heat of him at your back. He didn’t touch you, didn’t need to. His presence alone was enough to make your pulse flutter.

“It’s perfect,” he said immediately.

You snorted, shaking your head. “You’re lying.”

“I am not,” he insisted softly. “It’s shaped like a heart. That’s already impressive.”

You turned slightly, glancing up at him. He wasn’t teasing now. He meant it.

Carefully, you carried the pan to the table and set it down between the candles like it was something sacred. The golden light flickered over the glossy surface of the brownie, making it glow. For a second, neither of you spoke.

You sat down again, knees nearly brushing under the table. The air felt different now, more lighter, but also heavier with meaning. The kind of fragile excitement that only comes with firsts hummed quietly between you.

First Valentine’s.

First dinner you’d ever made for someone like this.

First time sitting across from him like this, without pretending you were just friends, without the safety net of other people in the room.

First time pretending you weren’t hiding something huge, and also not caring quite as much.

Isaac looked at you across the candlelight, soft and steady and yours.

And for one perfect second, the world felt small in the best way, contained within the warm glow of flickering flames and the quiet hum of the house settling around you. The rest of Beacon Hills might as well have ceased to exist. No werewolves. No secrets. No complicated brother dynamics. Just you, him, and a slightly lopsided heart-shaped brownie that suddenly felt like the most important thing either of you had ever created.

You picked up your fork, fingers still faintly dusted with flour. Isaac mirrored you automatically, the movement instinctive, like the two of you were syncing without even trying. His eyes flicked from the brownie to your face, just a little nervous.

“Hey,” he said quietly, leaning forward slightly, voice dipping into that tone he only used when he was about to say something real. “Before we—”

The sound of keys sliding into the front door lock shattered the moment like glass.

You froze.

Your fork slipped from your fingers and clattered loudly against your plate, the sharp metallic sound echoing far too dramatically in the candlelit kitchen. Isaac’s head snapped toward the hallway, shoulders tensing instantly, body going still in that hyper-alert way that reminded you he was, in fact, not just your boyfriend but also a supernatural creature with enhanced senses.

“What was that?” he hissed, already knowing.

The door handle turned.

“Mom?” you called automatically, though dread was already pooling in your stomach.

The door swung open.

“Hey, I’m home—”

Scott’s voice.

Panic detonated in your chest.

Isaac was on his feet in a second, chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Scott?” he whispered like the name itself was a threat.

Footsteps approached the kitchen.

You lunged for the candles, blowing them out with chaotic urgency. Smoke curled into the air in thin gray ribbons, betraying you immediately. “Sit,” you whisper-yelled. “Just—sit. Act normal.”

“Normal how?” Isaac hissed back, dropping into his chair so fast it nearly tipped. He sat rigidly upright, hands flat on the table like he was posing for a school picture.

“Less murder suspect,” you muttered.

Scott appeared in the doorway a second later, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, expression already sliding from neutral to suspicious as he took in the scene.

His eyes scanned the table.

The plates. The forks. The faint wisps of candle smoke still rising accusingly into the air. The heart-shaped brownie sitting between you like evidence in a trial.

He blinked.

Once. Twice.

“…Why does it look like you’re on a date?”

You didn’t hesitate. Not even a second. “We’re not.”

Isaac nodded so quickly it was a miracle he didn’t strain something. “Yeah. Definitely not.”

Scott’s eyes narrowed slowly, like a wolf assessing prey. “Then why,” he asked carefully, “is there a heart-shaped brownie.”

You grabbed your fork again with exaggerated calm. “Because we’re both single on Valentine’s Day,” you said brightly. “Obviously.”

Isaac made a choking sound that he very poorly disguised as a cough. He thumped his chest once and nodded. “Singles dinner,” he said weakly, voice cracking on the second word.

Scott stared at you both in silence.

It stretched.

And stretched.

You could practically hear his brain working.

Finally, he sighed and dropped his backpack by the wall. “I broke up with Allison,” he said flatly.

You and Isaac exchanged a glance.

“Oh,” you said. “Then—uh—sit?”

Scott pulled out a chair slowly, still watching you like he knew something was off. “This is weird,” he muttered, sitting down. “But…brownies.”

Under the table, Isaac’s knee brushed yours, deliberate and secret.

You didn’t look at him, but you smiled anyway.

Scott took a bite.

Chewed.

Paused.

“…This is good,” he admitted, clearly against his will. “Did you make it?”

You straightened instantly, pride flooding your voice. “Yeah! I mean—mostly. Isaac helped.”

Isaac blinked, genuinely confused. “I did?”

“You emotionally supported me,” you clarified sweetly. “By standing there. Menacingly.”

Scott snorted despite himself. “That tracks.”

There was a brief silence as Scott took another bite, then another, clearly deciding that heartbreak could, in fact, be dulled by chocolate. His shoulders slumped as the tension drained from him.

“Allison said she needs space,” he said, staring at the table. “Which apparently means ‘break up with me right before Valentine’s Day.’”

You softened instantly, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. “I’m sorry, Scotty.”

Isaac shifted awkwardly in his seat, clearly unsure how to insert himself into emotional brother-sister territory. “Yeah,” he said after a beat. “That…sucks.”

Scott glanced at him. “You’re bad at sympathy.”

Isaac stiffened defensively. “I’m trying. I didn’t grow up with, like…healthy emotional conversations.”

Scott hummed thoughtfully. “Yeah. I noticed.”

You bit down on your smile and hid it behind your fork.

Scott leaned back in his chair slowly, the wooden legs dragging against the kitchen tile with a long, dramatic scrape that felt far too symbolic for a seventeen-year-old boy holding a fork. He looked between you and Isaac like a detective who had walked into a crime scene made entirely of chocolate and suspicious vibes. The table still bore the faint evidence of romance.

“So what is this now?” Scott asked, gesturing loosely at the table with his fork. “A pity dinner?”

“Yes,” you answered immediately, with the confidence of someone who had absolutely not rehearsed this cover story in her head five seconds ago. “A very exclusive one for single people.”

Isaac, who had gone unnaturally still beside you the moment Scott appeared in the doorway, lifted his fork with ceremonial seriousness, as if this were a formal declaration and not a desperate attempt at not getting murdered by your brother. “Do I count?”

Scott’s eyes narrowed slightly as he studied him. “Aren’t you single?”

Time physically slowed.

Isaac’s fork slipped in his hand and clinked loudly against his plate. The sound echoed in the small kitchen like a gunshot.

Under the table, you kicked him. Hard.

He jolted upright so fast his knee knocked into the underside of the table with a hollow thud.

“Yes,” Isaac said quickly, shoulders snapping back as if posture alone could make him convincing. “Extremely single. Painfully single. I have never been less in a relationship in my entire life.”

Scott stared. “You sound not sure.”

Isaac blinked, visibly recalculating. “I always sound like this. That’s just…my voice.”

Scott kept staring at him for another few seconds, then shrugged with the casual acceptance of someone too heartbroken to interrogate further. “Fair.”

The tension didn’t disappear entirely, but it shifted. It softened around the edges, settling into something awkward but survivable.

Scott dropped back into his chair with a heavy sigh and stared down at the heart-shaped brownie like it had personally betrayed him. He poked at it once with his fork, dragging the metal through the soft center.

“You know what the worst part is?” he asked, voice tinged with genuine misery.

You leaned forward instinctively. “What?”

“She kept the hoodie,” he said, staring into the brownie like it held all of life’s injustices.

You gasped in exaggerated horror, one hand flying to your chest. “Not the hoodie.”

Isaac winced, grimacing in solidarity. “That’s…cold.”

Scott nodded. “Right? That’s emotional warfare.”

You slid the brownie pan toward him with quiet urgency. “Eat your feelings.”

Scott did not need to be told twice. He carved off an aggressively large piece and shoved it into his mouth like it had personally offended him. Chocolate smeared faintly at the corner of his lip. He licked it off dramatically before pointing the fork at both of you like he was about to deliver the most important speech of his life.

“You know what?” he said, gaining momentum. “You two are lucky.”

You blinked. “Lucky?”

“Yeah. You’re not in love.”

Isaac choked.

On absolutely nothing.

But your brother didn’t even glance at him.

“Do you have any idea how peaceful your lives must be?” Scott continued, gesturing wildly with his fork. “No dramatic breakups. No emotional rollercoasters. No lying awake at three in the morning replaying every conversation and wondering if you should’ve used a different word.”

Your gaze flicked to Isaac instinctively.

His eyes were already on you.

Under the table, his hand slid carefully toward yours, hesitant at first, then determined. His fingers wrapped around your hand gently, like he needed to anchor himself to something real while your brother declared war on love.

“Sounds…calm,” you offered carefully.

“It is calm,” Scott insisted. “You get to sit here and eat brownies on Valentine’s Day without your heart being ripped out of your chest.”

Isaac nodded stiffly. “Yeah. Ripped out. Very inconvenient.”

Scott pointed at him triumphantly. “Exactly! You get it.”

Isaac froze. “I— do?”

“Totally,” Scott said. “You’re single. You don’t have to stress about saying the wrong thing. Or texting too fast. Or not texting fast enough. You don’t have to overthink punctuation or read into periods.”

Under the table, Isaac’s thumb brushed slowly over your knuckles.

Not absentminded. Intentional.

His touch was warm and grounding, even as his expression remained carefully neutral above the table.

Scott leaned forward again, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. “You don’t have to deal with the fact that one day someone’s holding your hand and the next day they need ‘space.’”

“Ouch,” you muttered.

“Right?” Scott said. “Love is a trap. A beautiful, devastating trap.”

Isaac swallowed. “That sounds…intense.”

“It is intense!” Scott exclaimed. “You think it’s going to be cute and romantic and then suddenly you’re emotionally compromised.”

You coughed lightly to hide your laugh. “Emotionally compromised?”

“Yes!” Scott said. “You lose all sense of logic. You’d do anything for that person. You’d make heart-shaped brownies for them if they asked.”

You went rigid.

Isaac’s grip on your hand tightened so fast it almost hurt.

Scott paused mid-rant.

“…That was hypothetical,” he added suspiciously.

“Hypothetical,” you repeated, nodding with alarming enthusiasm.

Scott studied you both for another long second, then shook his head. “Anyway. My point is…you’re lucky. Being single is safe.”

He stabbed another piece of brownie like he was punishing it. “No heartbreak.”

There was a brief silence.

Isaac cleared his throat quietly. “What if it’s not always like that?”

Scott shrugged. “It is. You fall in love, you get hurt. That’s the deal.”

You tilted your head slightly, trying to sound casual even as your pulse thudded so loudly you were positive Isaac could hear every beat. “But what about the good parts? Like…the movie parts.”

Scott hesitated.

His shoulders softened.

“…They’re good,” he admitted quietly. “Really good. Like, stupidly good.” His voice dropped. “But that’s what makes it worse when it ends.”

Under the table, Isaac’s hand tightened around yours again, this time not out of panic, but something else. Something protective. His thumb brushed gently over your skin, slow and deliberate, like he was making a silent promise.

Scott pushed his chair back abruptly, the legs scraping again. “I’m doing you a favor,” he declared, grabbing his plate. “Stay single.”

He started toward the hallway, then stopped and turned back, pointing his fork at you both one last time.

“Trust me. You don’t want to be in love.”

You plastered on your brightest smile. “Noted.”

Scott gave you both one final suspicious look, eyes lingering just a second too long, before disappearing upstairs.

His bedroom door shut.

The sound echoed through the quiet house.

The second it clicked closed, the tension dissolved.

You and Isaac slowly turned toward each other.

The candle smoke still lingered faintly in the air. The brownie sat between you, half-eaten and slightly ruined. The kitchen felt different now, less like a romantic movie scene, more like a battlefield you had barely survived.

“We’re doomed,” you whispered.

Isaac let out a quiet, breathy laugh, shoulders finally relaxing as he leaned closer across the table. There was something soft in his expression now. Something unguarded.

“Apparently,” he murmured.

“You don’t want to be in love?” you teased gently.

He looked at you like the answer was the simplest thing in the world.

“Too late.”