“Hi.” I smile even though he can’t see me.
“Hey, trouble,” he says. “Let me guess, you’re watching that firefighter show again.”
I stretch out, one leg sliding off the couch. “It’s called therapy, and how did you know?”
“Is that what we’re calling it now? I can hear the voice of Captain Nash in the background.”
“Watching men in turnout gear save the world is cheaper than actual therapy.”
His laugh slides through the phone, warm enough to crawl under my skin and stay there. “You’d fake a house fire if it meant Buckley would carry you out.”
“Don’t tempt me.” I giggle.
There’s movement on his end—the muted thud of steps, the quiet slide of a chair. Even when he isn’t talking, the sound of him carries that careful kind of control that fills a room.
Then his tone shifts. “How’s the situation with your student?”
My stomach tightens. “Which one?”
“The one pushing his luck.”
The ceiling fan hums above me. “He’s still testing boundaries. Not backing off yet.”
“Penelope.”
Just my name. He doesn’t need to say anything else.
“I know,” I tell him. “But it’s manageable. He’s all talk, that’s it. If he opens his mouth about me, he opens it about himself, and he’s got a lot more to lose. I’m keeping it close to the chest.”
“That sounds like gambling.”
“It’s strategy. He’s bluffing.” I pause, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. “I swear, Gid, if it gets worse, I’ll call.”
He exhales, a slow drag of air that fills the quiet. “I hate when you say that like it’s a comfort.”
“It should be. You know I mean it.”
“I’d rather you didn’t wait until it’s too late.”
“I’m not helpless.”
“I know you’re not.” The words are softer now, like he’s reminding himself.
Silence settles between us, steady and familiar, until I hear him shift, a soft exhale—then his voice drops back in, dry and amused. “Fine. New topic before I get in my car and commit an academic felony.”
I laugh. “You’d hate campus parking.”
“Probably.”
The edge in his voice softens, and I hear the quiet clink of ice, the sound of him settling back—probably smiling, shirt sleeves pushed up, drink in hand.
“So,” he says, dragging out the word, “when do I get to meet the other man?”
I sit up, caught between a snort and a blush. “You’re already scheduling introductions?”
“Just trying to keep things civilized. If we’re doing this, I want it to work. And that means knowing who’s sharing your bed.”
“You make it sound like a merger.”
