Right. Because we were two adults who'd almost kissed twice and were now sharing living space. Because the lines of our fake relationship kept blurring into territory neither of us had mapped. Because a week was a long time to pretend we didn't want things we'd agreed not to want.
"Okay," I said. "You go."
"No entering each other's bedrooms without knocking."
"Obviously."
"Bathroom schedules. I shower at six. You can have it after."
"I'm at the shop by five-thirty most days. I'll shower before you're up."
"That works." He took a sip of coffee, avoiding my eyes. "And... whatever almost happened last night. At the piano."
"Nothing happened."
"Almost happened," he corrected. "We should probably not let it almost happen again."
"Agreed." The word tasted like a cracker without salt. "Platonic."
"Exactly."
I nodded, gripping my coffee cup too hard. This was sensible. This was smart. This was absolutely the right call for two people who had an expiration date built into their arrangement.
So why did it feel like disappointment?
"Great," I said, too brightly. "Boundaries established. No bedroom-entering, no bathroom conflicts, no almost-kissing. Should be a breeze."
He shot me a look that suggested he heard the sarcasm I wasn't quite hiding. "Ready to go?"
"Let me put on pants that actually fit first."
I retreated to the guest room, dug through my bag of salvaged clothes, and found jeans that were only slightly damp. Good enough. I changed, finger-combed my hair into something resembling presentable, and rejoined Callum by the door.
The elevator ride down was silent. The drive to my building was silent. The walk through my waterlogged apartment—grabbing clothes, toiletries, the charger I'd forgotten—was silent except for the squelch of carpet under our feet.
"This is worse than I thought," Callum said, surveying the damage.
"Yeah, well. Welcome to vintage charm." I stuffedanother handful of clothes into my bag. "The structural integrity is questionable and the ceiling leaks, but at least the rent is... also questionable, actually."
"You could find somewhere better."
"With what money?"
He didn't answer. Just watched me with that unreadable expression, catching details I probably didn't want him noticing.
"I'm fine," I said. "This is temporary. Everything's temporary."
I didn't mean for it to sound loaded. But his jaw tightened, and I knew he'd heard the double meaning.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Ready."
He dropped me at Brew & Bean ten minutes later, idling at the curb.
"I'll get you a key today,” he said. "If you need anything?—"
"I'll figure it out. I'm very resourceful."
