"I've been cooking anyway."
"Cooking things I choose. No more experimental risotto."
"That risotto was perfectly adequate."
"It was crunchy."
"Risotto has texture."
"Rice shouldn't crunch, Tobias."
I bit back a smile. "Noted. No more crunchy risotto."
"And no touching my Clancy novels. They stay where they are."
"Why Clancy specifically?"
"They're signed."
That made me pause. "Tom Clancy signed your books?"
"Met him at an event before he died." He said it casually, like it was nothing. "He was a decent guy. Talked to me about submarines for twenty minutes."
There was a story there. I could see it in the way his expression softened, just slightly.
"Maybe," I said carefully, "you could tell me about it sometime."
He looked at me for a long moment. Something flickered in his gray eyes.
"Maybe," he said. "Sometime."
The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. The closest I'd seen from him since I arrived.
"You're bossy."
"I'm organized. There's a difference."
"Uh-huh." He stood, stretching in a way that made his t-shirt ride up and his shoulders flex. I looked away too quickly, felt my face heat, hoping he hadn't noticed.
He noticed.
His eyes narrowed slightly, curiosity entering his expression. But he didn't comment. Just said, "I'm going to shower. Try not to reorganize anything else while I'm gone."
"No promises."
He made a sound that was almost a laugh and disappeared into the bathroom.
I sat on the couch, clutching a book I wasn't reading, and tried very hard not to think about Vance in the shower. About water running down broad shoulders. About steam and soap and skin.
I failed completely.
That night, we ate leftover carbonara and watched two more episodes of the procedural.
Vance sat at one end of the couch. I sat at the other, the new cushion comfortable against my back. There was space between us. Appropriate space. Safe space.
It didn't feel like enough.
"Thank you," I said during a commercial break. "For the cushion. And the books. And letting me stay."
