Meet Me Where the Oak Tree Grows

"Besides, I've already pocketed your 'protection fee.' What are you worried about?" he teased, a playful glint in his eye.
I sniffed, glancing up at him with a mix of curiosity and disbelief. He hadn't asked for anything yesterday.
As if to confirm his point, he casually pulled out that crumpled ten-dollar bill from his pocket, letting it rest in his palm for a moment before tucking it
back away.
He took my hand gently, leading me downstairs to the kitchen, where the light was still on. The pressure cooker was keeping a pot of chicken soup
warm.
"My mom left this for you," he said softly.
That’s when it hit me—I must have been a terrible actor. For years, my parents had never seen through my facade, but he did. I realized then that
some people look with their eyes, and others with their hearts.
"My cooking's nothing fancy. How about some chicken noodle soup?" he suggested.
I nodded like a bobblehead, eager and grateful.
"Take a seat and relax," he instructed. The kitchen quickly filled with steam as he cracked a window to let in the cool breeze.
The noodles were ready in no time, served in a bowl that seemed big enough for two.
"Think you can finish it?" he asked, eyebrow raised.
I assured him I could.
"Too much or not enough?" he pressed.
"Just right," I replied confidently.
Suddenly, I felt a playful flick on my forehead—it didn’t hurt but it was loud enough to make me flinch.
Squinting slightly, he asked again, "Too much or not enough?"
Sheepishly, I admitted, "Too much."

His expression softened as he swapped my oversized bowl for a perfectly sized pink one. "Next time, let me know if it's too much or too little. Eating
properly is important."
I nodded, appreciating his care. The noodles were topped with chicken and corn, and I savored every bite.
Across the table, he dug into his own bowl with gusto. "Good?" he asked, grinning.
"Delicious," I replied, smiling back.
"You’re easy to please," he chuckled.
The kitchen was filled with the comforting aroma of food, and the evening breeze drifted in, wrapping around us like a warm hug.
Perhaps it was the best sleep I'd ever had, because I woke up, surprisingly, past seven the next morning. Panic set in when I saw the wall clock.
Since Mom left, it had just been Dad and me. Regardless of the season, I was up at five to finish chores before school. Sleeping in meant waking to
fists and harsh words.
I hurriedly dressed and dashed downstairs, only then remembering I wasn’t home. Relief washed over me.
The front door was slightly ajar, suggesting someone was up, but it was eerily quiet. I recalled that the door to the left, where Jonah’s mother stayed,
was closed, with a doormat snug against the gap. Jonah's room, however, was wide open.
So, he was up.
After freshening up, I realized we hadn’t done the dishes from the previous night. I headed to the kitchen, but the sink was spotless and dry. The
dishes were neatly stacked away, and even the dishcloth was folded with precision.
I checked the balcony for any laundry, only to find all the clothes, including mine, hung out to dry.
Unable to believe my eyes, I grabbed the mop by the door, but the floor was gleaming—cleaner than I'd ever seen.
I thought to myself, "Are all these tough guys this neat and hardworking?"
"Up early to play housemaid?" a familiar voice quipped from behind.
Startled, I dropped the mop with a clatter.
Jonah, dressed in workout clothes, strolled in with a teasing smile.