KHLOE'S POV
The house smelled warm when I stepped inside.
It wasn't just food—it was familiarity. Oil heating in a pan. Onions softening slowly. The sharp edge of pepper blooming into something gentler. The kind of scent that wrapped around you before you could think, before you could brace yourself.
I closed the door quietly behind me, resting my forehead against the wood for a brief second longer than necessary. Outside, the night hummed—cars passing, distant voices, life continuing with or without my permission. Inside, the world narrowed into something manageable.
My mother was in the kitchen.
She stood at the stove, sleeves rolled just below her elbows, hair wrapped loosely in a scarf that had seen better days. Her movements were unhurried, practiced. A wooden spoon tapped softly against the pot as she stirred, the sound steady, rhythmic—like a pulse.
"You're late," she said without turning.
Not sharp. Not accusing. Just a statement of fact.
"Work ran long," I replied, slipping off my shoes and setting my bag down by the door.
She glanced over her shoulder then, and her eyes softened when they met my face properly. Mothers always knew. Even when they didn't know.
"You look tired."
"I am."
I crossed to the sink and washed my hands, the water warm against my skin. I leaned against the counter afterward, watching her work. The kitchen light cast a familiar glow, catching the edges of chipped tiles, the small crack near the window we always said we'd fix someday.
This room had raised me as much as she had.
"You can go sit," she said. "Food will be ready soon."
"I'll stay here."
She hummed in acknowledgment and returned to stirring.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
The radio murmured low in the background—some old song she'd loved long before I existed. The pan sizzled softly. The scent deepened, grew richer. My shoulders loosened without my permission, the tension of the day easing its grip just slightly.
I hadn't realized how tightly I'd been holding myself together until I didn't have to anymore.
But peace never lasted long when something heavy followed you home.
"Mama," I said eventually.
She paused—not fully, just enough to signal attention. "Yes?"
"There's something I need your advice on."
That made her turn.
She lowered the heat and faced me, studying my expression the way she always did when she sensed weight behind my words. Her gaze wasn't invasive. It was patient. Waiting.
"What happened?"
I hesitated.
It wasn't that I didn't trust her. It was that once spoken, things gained shape. Edges. Weight. And I wasn't sure I was ready for that.
"My boss," I began carefully, "offered me an apartment."
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. Not in shock—just curiosity sharpening.
"An apartment?"
"Yes. One owned by the company. Closer to work. More secure."
She absorbed that quietly, eyes returning to the pot as if the answer might be simmering there. "And you don't look relieved."
"I don't know how to feel."
She stirred slowly, thoughtfully. "Did he explain why?"
I chose my words with precision. "He said it was for safety. Convenience."
"And is that untrue?"
"No," I admitted. "It would help. A lot."
She nodded, as though that settled something. "Then what is troubling you?"
I swallowed. The answer sat heavy in my chest, layered, complicated.
"I don't want to owe anyone."
She let out a soft laugh—not dismissive, not amused. Knowing.
"Ah."
That single sound loosened something inside me.
"Khloe," she said, turning to face me fully now, "sometimes help is not a debt. Sometimes it is simply help."
"But power complicates things," I said. "He's my boss."
"Yes," she agreed easily. "Which is why he offered it properly, not secretly. That matters."
I hadn't told her that.
She continued, "You are not asking for it. You are not bargaining. He made an offer. You can accept or refuse."
"It still feels like crossing a line."
"Only if the line is unclear," she replied gently. "Is it?"
I didn't answer.
She stepped closer and took my hand, her grip warm and grounding. "You've worked hard to stand on your own. I know that. But independence doesn't mean rejecting every door that opens."
I looked away, throat tight. "What if people talk?"
"People always talk," she said with a shrug. "What matters is your integrity. And I raised you with that."
I nodded, blinking quickly.
"If you accept," she continued, "you do so with your boundaries intact. You don't give more than you are comfortable with. You don't explain more than necessary."
She tilted her head slightly. "And if you refuse, make sure it's because you truly don't want it—not because you're punishing yourself."
That hit deeper than anything else she'd said.
She returned to the stove and plated the food, the conversation settling between us without urgency. Dinner was quiet. Comfortable. She asked about work. I gave neutral answers. She didn't push.
Some things didn't need interrogation.
Later, in my room, I sat on the edge of the bed long after changing, the house quiet now except for the occasional creak of settling wood. The night pressed gently against the windows.
I replayed the car ride in fragments.
His voice. Calm. Steady. The way he'd said offer, not give. The way he'd looked ahead instead of at me, as though eye contact might have shifted the meaning into something dangerous.
I thought about North Crest estate. The quiet streets. The security. The ease.
And I thought about my mother's words.
Don't punish yourself.
I hadn't told her everything.
I hadn't told her about the way my chest tightened when he said he cared.
I hadn't told her about the silence in the car, or how safe it had felt despite everything.
I hadn't told her that the apartment scared me not because of what it was—but because of what it represented.
Some truths needed more time before they could breathe.
I lay back and stared at the ceiling, listening to the house settle around me.
One thing was clear, even if nothing else was:
I didn't want the apartment.
But I wasn't certain I wanted to refuse it either.
And that uncertainty followed me into sleep, quiet and persistent, waiting for a decision I wasn't yet ready to make.