"That's not mine," I say.
He picks up my keys without a word. Doesn't hand them back. Just holds them like he's confiscating contraband from a toddler.
"That IS mine," I say, pointing at the keys. "Give them back."
"Which floor?"
"You already know which floor, you creepy creepressive stalker person."
Something almost like amusement crosses his face. Almost. Like a ghost of a human expression. Then it's gone.
He opens my door. Walks in before me. Starts checking rooms like we're in a spy movie and assassins might be hiding behind my collection of designer throw pillows.
"Are you looking for ninjas?" I call after him, bracing myself in the doorway because standing unsupported seems ambitious. "I should warn you, I'm aligned with the ninjas. We have a pact."
"Clear," he says from my living room.
"The ninjas are in the bathroom!"
He ignores me. Checks the bathroom anyway. Comes back stone-faced.
"No ninjas."
"They're very sneaky. It's kind of their whole thing."
I watch him catalog my apartment. The champagne bottles. The clothes everywhere. The general chaos that is my naturalhabitat. He doesn't react. His face is just… face. Neutral. Like he's recording data for his little soldier brain to analyze later.
"You're judging me," I say.
"I'm assessing."
"Same thing." I push off from the doorway and make my way to the kitchen, using furniture as stepping stones. Couch. Chair. Counter. Victory. "You're standing in my kitchen thinking 'what a mess, what a disaster, why do I have to babysit this human tornado.'"
"I don't think in those terms."
"What terms do you think in?"
"Tactical."
I find the vodka in the freezer. Pour a glass with hands that are only a little shaky. Turn around to face him, raising the glass like a toast.
"To tactics," I say, and drink.
He doesn't try to stop me. Doesn't lecture. Just watches with those hazel eyes that see everything.
"You should drink water," he says.
"You should drink vodka. It would help with your…" I gesture vaguely at his whole situation. "Everything."
"I don't drink on duty."
"You're ALWAYS on duty. That's your problem." I take another sip. The burn is good. Familiar. "You need to learn to relax. Have fun. Let your hair down." I squint at his military-short cut. "Grow hair first, then let it down."
"I'll consider it."
"Was that a joke? Oh my God. Write this down. 4 AM, the soldier made a joke. Sort of. Almost. It was joke-adjacent."
I slide off the barstool to grab my phone because I need music, I need noise, I need something other than this oppressive silence and his oppressive presence and my own oppressive brain—
