The ghost buzzes again: 61% … 72% … almost there.
"Not yet, unless you want to tell me, Zhena?" My voice sounds hoarse even to me.
"Men who say that word like they mean it," she fires back.
"Then I’ll save it for when I do."
"Careful," she says, smile turning small and dangerous. "Promises are expensive."
"I can afford one."
81% … 89% …
She studies me for a heartbeat, then finally, finally steps back. "You win this round," she says, slipping the thong into her pajama pocket.
"I always do." She has no idea.
The haptic hum vibrates once more against my wrist: 100% // CLONE COMPLETE.
I make a show of unplugging the phone and then release it to her, letting her take it. She cradles it against her palm, eyes still on mine.
"Wi-Fi password?" she asks, sweet and knowing.
"Tempesta42."
Her glance flicks up, sharp. "Storm?"
"It’s the season for it."
She turns away, and I let my breath out slowly. The ghost cools in my hand like a finished sin.
"Two days," she reminds me, returning to the door
"If you don’t bleed on my schedule." I grin at her.
"I only bleed on my own," she replies, and her hand reaches for the handle. "If you hear something on Nico, you wake me."
"I will."
"Even if it’s three a.m."
"I’m not the one who sleeps."
She glances at the bag, at the soft T-shirt peeking out, at the expensive nothings I bought to make a lie look married. "You’re very thorough for a man who doesn’t care."
"I care about outcomes," I correct her.
"And edges," she adds, and the way she says it makes the room warmer by a degree I refuse to acknowledge.
I roll up the charger cord and place it on the tray by the side of her bed.
"What?" she asks.
"Nothing." I pick up the lotion and read the label. "I hope you like mango?"
"I hate being still." She lifts her chin. "You?"
"I hate being surprised," I hold her gaze.
