Beck picks up my mug from the counter where I'd set it, refills it from the pot, and slides it back without asking.
"You don't have to---"
"It's made."
The coffee is excellent. Dark and clean with no bitterness, which means he's grinding the beans himself, and the alphabetized spice rack is not even the most organized thing in this kitchen. I take a longer sip than strictly necessary.
"Thank you."
He grunts. I'm already learning his grunts. This one means you're welcome with a side of please stop making this into a thing.
We stand in the particular awkward silence that happens when two people are alone in a kitchen at night with nothing but coffee and unspoken logistics between them.
"So---"
"House rules," he says at the same time.
We both stop. He gestures for me to continue. I shake my head. "No, please. House rules sound important."
His jaw works like he's sorting through words before they're allowed out. "Should probably show you around properly. Since you're here."
"Right. The nickel tour."
Here is the thing Beck doesn't know: I've already been in this suite. I slept in it last night. I jiggled the side door to the left this morning when I couldn't figure out why it wouldn't open. I discovered the shower handle situation firsthand at an hour when my brain was not equipped to handle surprises, and I used language that I sincerely hope didn't carry through the walls.
He doesn't know any of that. So I follow him through the connecting door and receive all of this information as though it is new.
Beck flips on the light with the efficiency of a man conducting a briefing. The suite smells like the same fresh paint as last night --- clean and slightly chemical, the smell of a room recently made ready for someone --- and the walls are the particular shade of beige chosen by landlords everywhere who want to offend no one and inspire nothing. It's fine. It's dry. The floor doesn't currently have water on it and the bar is that low.
"Your entrance is the side door." He walks over, demonstrates the lock. Opens it, closes it. Opens it again. "Sticks sometimes. Jiggle it to the left."
"Hm," I say, in a tone that implies I am receiving this for the first time.
He opens the coat closet. "Four hangers."
Four hangers, evenly spaced. My jacket is on one of them. We both look at my jacket. Neither of us mentions it. We move on, silently agreeing to let the moment pass with dignity.
"Laundry's in the basement." He gestures toward the door. "Schedule's posted. You get Tuesdays and Thursdays."
"What happens if I need to do laundry on a Wednesday?"
He stops. Turns. "Do you need to do laundry on Wednesdays?"
"No. Just checking the flexibility of the system."
"The system works because people follow the system."
I hide my smile behind my mug. "Tuesdays and Thursdays. No rogue Wednesday loads."
His eyes narrow like he's trying to determine if I'm mocking him. I keep my expression carefully neutral.
"Washer's temperamental," he continues. "Hot water setting doesn't always work. Use warm."
"How temperamental are we talking?"
"Somewhere between annoying and exorcism."
"Did you just make a joke?"
