"This far?" he asks.
"That's… that's fine."
He takes another step. "This?"
I swallow. "Still fine."
Another step. Now he's close enough that I can smell his soap and the faint scent of laundry detergent from his shirt. Close enough to see the flecks of darker gray in his eyes.
"This?"
"That's…" My voice comes out breathless. "That's the line."
He doesn't move. Just looks down at me, his expression unreadable. "Good to know."
Then he reaches past me—slowly, deliberately—and grabs the coffee pot from the counter behind me.
Our bodies don't touch, but it's close. So close, his body heat radiates; the solid presence of his chest inches from my shoulder.
"Like that?" he asks, voice low. "Would that count?"
I forgot how to breathe. "Count as what?"
"Lingering."
His hand is still on the coffee pot. He's still leaning in, crowding my space without touching me. My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it.
"Yes," I whisper. "That would count."
"Noted." He pours himself more coffee, then steps back, putting a careful three feet between us again. "Anything else I should know?"
I stare at him standing there, mug in hand, expression neutral except for the tiniest hint of amusement in his eyes.
He just… he just lawyer-ed me. He systematically walked through my rules, tested my boundaries, and made me spell out exactly what counts as flirting while standing in my kitchen half-dressed and sleep-deprived.
"No," I manage. "I think we're good."
"Great." He glances at the clock on the stove. "I should head out. First day." He picks up his dishes, rinses them, and puts them in the dishwasher.
"Right. Yeah. Good luck." I stumble over the words as I clutch at my coffee like a lifeline.
He moves toward the door, grabbing his keys—my cactus keychain—and a thermos I didn't notice before. At the doorway, he pauses and looks back.
"Thanks for the clarification," he says. "I think I understand the rules now." A pause. "All of them."
There's weight in those words. Weight I don't know how to interpret.
"Sure," I say. "No problem."
He studies me for another beat, gaze sweeping over my face like he's cataloging something. Then, quietly says, "Try to get some sleep, Ainsley. You look exhausted."
Not "tired." Exhausted.
Like he knows I was lying awake thinking about him. Like he can see straight through me.
And then he's gone, the front door clicking shut behind him.
I stand in the kitchen, coffee mug trembling in my hands, staring at the space where he was.
