He's sitting at the small table by the window, with a plate of eggs and toast in front of him, a mug of coffee in one hand. He's showered and dressed—dark jeans, a gray Thompson Construction T-shirt that stretches across his chest and shoulders, work boots laced tight. His hair is still damp, darker when it's wet, and he's clean-shaven now, which somehow makes his jaw look even more obscene.
He looks up when I shuffle in. His eyes widen, taking me in—rumpled, exhausted, barely dressed.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asks.
There's something in his tone. Not quite amusement, not quite concern. Something that makes me think he knows why I couldn't sleep, and it has nothing to do with being wired from my shift.
"Something like that," I mumble, making a beeline for the coffeepot.
My hands are shaking as I pour. Exhaustion, I tell myself. Just exhaustion.
"Did you get home okay last night?" He asks from behind me.
I glance over my shoulder. He's watching me, elbows on the table, coffee mug cradled in both hands. His gaze flicks down—just for a second—to my bare legs, then back up.
"Yeah. Late, but fine." I turn back to the counter, adding way too much creamer because my brain isn't firing on all cylinders. "The bar was packed. Mondays are trivia nights, and people get weird about trivia."
"Weird how?"
"Such as arguing over whether a hot dog is a sandwich levels of weird."
His mouth twitches. "Is it?"
"No," I say, turning to face him with my mug clutched in both hands like a lifeline. "It's a taco."
He blinks. Then, that almost-smile breaks through, just a little. "A taco?"
"Structurally speaking." I take a sip of coffee. It's too hot and burns my tongue, but I don't care. "If we're categorizing food by bread placement, a hot dog follows taco logic, not sandwich logic. Bread on three sides, not two."
"You think about this a lot?"
"I work at a bar. I think about a lot of stupid things a lot."
He huffs a quiet laugh, then takes a bite of eggs. I watch him chew, which is a weird thing to do, but I'm too tired tostop myself. He eats like he does everything else—methodical, controlled, no wasted motion.
"Are you always up this early?" I ask, leaning against the counter because standing unsupported feels like too much effort.
"Yeah. Old habit." He glances at me. "Sorry if I woke you."
"You didn't." Liar. "I just… couldn't settle."
His gaze lingers on me for a beat, like he's reading between the lines again. Then he sets down his fork and reaches for something on the chair next to him.
My rule packet.
And a small notebook.
Oh no.
"Actually," he says, "I'm glad you're up. I wanted to go over a few things before I head to the job site."
I stare at the notebook. "You… took notes?"
"I have questions."
"Questions."
"Clarifications," he corrects, flipping the notebook open. His handwriting is blocky and precise, each line numbered. Of course it is. "Some of your rules are pretty detailed, but I want to make sure I'm following them correctly."
