"That's literally why they're called throw pillows, Callum."
He almost smiled. Almost. "Guest room is down the hall. Bathroom's through there. Towels in the cabinet."
"You're not going to give me the full tour?"
"Would you like the full tour?"
"I'd like to know where you hide the evidence of being human. There's got to be a junk drawer somewhere. A pile of mail you haven't opened. A closet full of skeletons—literal or metaphorical, I'm not picky."
His mouth twitched. "I don't have a junk drawer."
"Everyone has a junk drawer."
"I have an organizational system."
"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard." I dropped my bag on his pristine floor, enjoying the way his eye twitched at the disruption. "Okay, counter tour. I'm going to wander around your apartment and make observations. You can follow and be defensive."
"I'm not defensive."
"You're already defensive."
I didn't wait for a response. Just started walking, peering at his space with unabashed nosiness. The kitchen was immaculate—not in a staged way, but in a "this man actually wipes down his counters after every use" way. His refrigerator contained vegetables, protein, and exactly one condiment. No magnets. No photos. No personality whatsoever.
"Your fridge is depressing," I called out.
"Are fridges supposed to spark joy?"
"Where's the leftover pizza? The questionabletakeout containers? The jar of pickles that's been there so long it's basically a science experiment?"
"I meal prep."
"Of course you do."
I moved to the living area. Bookshelves lined one wall—architecture mostly, but I spotted novels tucked between the textbooks. Literary fiction, a few thrillers, one romance that he'd probably die before admitting to owning.
"You read romance," I said, pulling it from the shelf.
"That's not mine."
"It's in your apartment. On your shelf. With a bookmark in it." I flipped it open. "Chapter twelve. You're halfway through."
He appeared behind me, swiping the book from my hands. "It was a gift."
"From who?"
"None of your concern."
"Was it a girlfriend? An ex-girlfriend? A very optimistic one-night stand?"
"It was my daughter." He slid the book back into its place. "She said I needed to understand how normal people experience emotions."
"Elena recommended you a romance novel?"
"She has a strange sense of humor."
I filed that away. The relationship betweenCallum and his daughter seemed strained, but this—a book recommendation, a gentle ribbing—felt different. Warmer. I liked it. Made Callum seem less like a fashionable robot but an actual messy human behind all that matchy-matchy decor.
I kept exploring. Found a photo on a side table, half-hidden behind a lamp. Young Callum, less gray, less guarded, holding a toddler with dark curls and his exact same gray eyes. Elena, probably three or four. Both of them laughing.
