“Did you clean?”
I pretend not to hear her as I fiddle with my fingernails like I didn’t just deep-clean her entire apartment because I needed something, anything, to keep my hands busy.
“I didn’t ask you to do that,” she mutters, strolling toward the couch.
“I know,” I say, sitting up straighter. “You didn’t have to.”
“Thank you,” she replies, her voice barely above a whisper.
“You’re welcome, dollface.”
She sinks into the cushion beside me, tucking one leg under the other, and glances at the TV. “Ugh, I love this movie.”
“Can you hold me? I’m scared.”
She rolls her eyes. “No.”
“It’s terrifying, his mask freaks me out.”
A smile gently forms at the corner of her mouth, subtle and fleeting.
We sit in silence for a while.
The glow from the TV flickers across her face, accentuating her high cheekbones, thick lashes, and the faint red mark on her shoulder from where she had leaned her arm while tattooing earlier.
She doesn’t sit exactly close, but she doesn’t keep her distance either.
A jumpsacare hits, and I swear I shit my pants.
I jerk back against the cushions.
“Shit!” I yell, half-splashing my drink and throwing a hand toward Rex, who startles and hisses.
A soft laugh escapes her, so quick and unguarded I almost miss it.
I look at her.
Her hand is over her mouth, trying to contain the smile threatening to escape.
“You laughed.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You laughed or farted, take your pick.”
She pushes at my chest playfully. “You screamed.”
“I didn’t scream, that was Rex!”
The giggle that was threatening to escape her comes free, real this time.
Sweet music to my ears.
“Chili’s ready!” I blurt out, getting nervous just by sitting next to her on the couch.
She snorts behind me, amused but tries to hide it, and walks into the kitchen behind me, her damp hair still clinging to the back of her oversized T-shirt.
The smell of cumin, jalapeño, and slow-cooked beef hits her in the face, and her eyes flick toward the pot, skeptical.
