His mouth does that tiny twitch thing again. "Force of habit."
I sigh, running a hand over my face. "Okay. Fine. New rule amendment: if you're actively cooking, you get a grace period. Just don't leave stuff soaking overnight and we're good."
"Fair." He writes it down. "What about meal-prepping? If I've got containers going in stages—"
"Just clean as you go," I interrupt, because if I have to negotiate dish timelines at seven a.m. I'm going to lose my mind. "As long as the kitchen isn't a disaster when you're done, I don't care about the exact timeline."
He nods, making another note. "Appreciate the flexibility."
"You're welcome," I mutter into my coffee.
"Rule seven. Shared spaces."
I brace myself.
"Do you have preferences for the TV? Channels that are off-limits, volume levels, that kind of thing?"
"No. I watch cooking shows and true crime. Sometimes both at the same time if I'm feeling chaotic."
His mouth curves just a little. "Of course you do."
I narrow my eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing." But he's smiling now, small and brief. "Just fits."
"Fits what?"
"You."
My stomach flips. I don't know what to do with that, so I deflect. "What do you watch?"
"Sports. History Channel. Whatever's on."
"So we're not going to fight over the remote?"
"Probably not." He pauses. "Unless you want to."
There's a beat of silence. His gray eyes hold mine, and I swear there's a challenge buried in there somewhere, under all that calm.
I look away first. "Next question."
He lets it go, flipping a page in his notebook. "Rule ten."
Oh no.
"No flirting," I blurt out. "Pretty straightforward."
"Is it?"
"Yes."
"You listed examples," he says, tapping the rule sheet. "But I want to make sure I understand the boundaries."
"The boundaries," I repeat faintly.
"Yeah." He leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. "You said no compliments about appearance that imply sexual interest. Where's the line between that and just being polite?"
My brain is malfunctioning. "I don't—I mean—just use common sense?"
