“Spot a problem and quietly fix it.”
“If I can,” I say. “Quiet helps. Noise makes people feel like favors and thanks are owed.”
Her mouth lifts. “So you prefer being a mystery benefactor.”
“I prefer the job done,” I say. “Quickly. Quietly, if I can.”
She looks away too quickly for me to read the expression, then back. “I keep thinking I should say something witty,” she says. “But I think I left my wit up there.” Her eyes pan upward. “Before I got on the elevator.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “You can borrow mine.”
“You have wit?” she says, deadpan.
I let the smile out this time, small and sharp. “Occasionally.”
Her eyes flick to my mouth and away before she can stop them. It’s a small movement. It registers anyway. Heat moves through the tightness in my neck in a clean line I feel far lower than I want to admit.
“Tell me another boring thing,” she says quickly.
“I sharpen pencils with a knife,” I say.
She turns her head. “Like an old-school artist?”
“Like a man who never has a sharpener,” I say.
“But always has a knife?” she asks.
“Utility knife,” I say. It’s mostly true. She doesn’t need to know why a man like me would need to carry weapons regularly. I don’t go into any more detail than that.
She laughs, and it’s genuine. The sound does to me exactly what it did in the hallway: spreads warmth through me.
She makes a thoughtful face. “Multi-use. Efficient. Very you.”
“My turn,” she says. “I can’t write in a notebook if the first page has a smudge. I’ll tear it out and start again.”
“That sounds expensive.”
She nudges my shoe with the toe of hers, a small touch that feels like something else. “Don’t mock me.”
“I’m not,” I say, lifting my palms in faux innocence.
“It’s a sickness,” she says, deadpan.
We let the silence settle again. It’s alert. I can feel her next to me without looking—her breath, the small move of her shoulder when she shifts, the whisper of fabric. My body files it all away like it’s evidence I might need later. I tell it to relax. It does not listen.
She rests the back of her head against the wall and stares at the ceiling. “This is not how I pictured my day ending.”
“How did you picture it?” I ask.
“Emails,” she says. “A run-through of the door plan. Shower. Sleep.”
“Exciting,” I say.
“Don’t shame me,” she says, smiling. “What about you?”
“Paperwork,” I say. “A phone call I really don’t want to make. Bed.”
“Thrilling,” she says, dry. “We’re menaces, you and I.”
