"Also noted."
She finishes demolishing the croissant. Looks around for more carbs to assault. I push a plate toward her, breakfast I ordered earlier through the building's concierge service. Had to plan ahead since her fridge contains nothing but champagne and mold.
She eyes the plate like it might contain explosives. "What is this?"
"Food."
"I can SEE it's food. Why is it here? Did you… did you order me breakfast?"
"You need to eat. Eleven glasses of champagne and whatever else, nothing substantial in your system."
"You really did count." She drops onto the barstool across from me, still suspicious, but takes a piece of toast. "This is weird. This whole situation is weird. You know that, right? You're not normal."
"I've been told."
"By who?"
"Everyone."
She snort-laughs, then winces. "Okay. Okay. If we're doing this, if I can't get rid of you, we need rules. REAL rules. Not your tactical banana unconscious relocation loopholes."
"I'm listening."
She straightens, trying for authority despite looking like she lost a fight with a tornado. "Rule one: My bedroom is off-limits. ACTUALLY off-limits. Even if I'm unconscious. Even if I'm on fire. You knock. You WAIT. You do not carry me anywhere without explicit verbal consent."
"What if you're actually on fire?"
"Then you throw water from the DOORWAY."
"That seems inefficient."
"THOSE ARE THE TERMS." She waves the toast for emphasis. "Rule two: You do not comment on what I eat, drink, or otherwise consume."
"No."
"Excuse me?"
"My job is to keep you alive. I'll comment on anything that makes that job harder."
"Your JOB…" She takes a visible breath, wrestling her temper into submission. "Fine. You can COMMENT. But you can't STOP me. I'm an adult."
"Debatable."
"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that because it's before noon and I haven't had enough coffee to commit murder." She reaches for the pot, pours more punishment into her mug. "Rule three: You apologize when you're an asshole."
"That seems reasonable."
"It is. I'm a reasonable person."
"Also debatable."
"What did I JUST say about being an asshole?"
"That I should apologize. I will, when I am one."
She glares at me. I hold her gaze. Something sparks between us. Not heat, exactly, but friction. Like flint and steel before the fire.
"Rule four," I say, jumping in on this rule-making protocol. "You tell me if something feels wrong. Even if you can't explain it."
