"I made a factual statement about appliance noise," he says.
"You said exorcism."
"The washer is forty years old and sounds like it's possessed. That's a maintenance issue, not humor."
"Right," I say. "Purely informational."
"Purely," he agrees, and moves to the kitchenette.
Mini-fridge, microwave, two-burner hot plate. He opens the cabinets to show me dishes, pulls out drawers to reveal silverware. I already know where everything is. I found the silverware on my third attempt this morning after incorrectly guessing two other drawers. It would be petty to mention this.
"You can use the main kitchen if you need to, but clean up after yourself."
"Absolutely."
"Put things back where you found them."
"Of course."
"Don't leave food out. Attracts mice."
I pause. "Have you had mice?"
"Not yet."
The bathroom is down the short hallway, and Beck is a large person in a small space. When he pauses for me to follow him through the doorway, there's a moment where we're closer together than the tour strictly requires --- close enough that I clock the detail that he smells like something clean and vaguely pine-adjacent, and that his shoulders are blocking most of the light from behind him. His forearm brushes mine as he reaches past me to point at the handle, warm through my sleeve, and I find a fascinating amount of interest in the tile grout.
Professional. Completely professional.
He demonstrates the shower handle.
"Too far left, scalding. Too far right, arctic. Sweet spot is here." He adjusts it twice, watching to make sure I'm paying attention.
Sweet spot. Right. I found the scalding end this morning with my left shoulder and a string of words I use exclusively for bad trauma calls. The sweet spot and I made our acquaintance approximately ten minutes later, after a very educational process of elimination.
"You could mark it," I say.
"With what?"
"Tape. A marker. A tiny flag. Something to indicate the zone of survivable temperature."
He turns this over with the gravity of someone considering load-bearing renovations. "That's... actually not a bad idea."
"I have my moments."
The bedroom is last. Small, square, one window facing the backyard --- and my mattress on the basic bed frame where I threw it last night, still unmade, my open duffel on the floor, yesterday's uniform draped over the dresser. Evidence of a person in the middle of living here rather than receiving a tour of it.
Beck looks at none of this. A man of professional discretion. But he's standing next to my unmade bed in a room that smells like my shampoo, and I am very aware of both of those facts even as I pretend not to be. The room feels smaller than it did last night. Funny how that works.
"Closet door squeaks." He slides it open, closed. The squeak is genuinely impressive --- the kind that would wake a deep sleeper. "I can oil it."
"It only makes noise if I open it," I point out. "I control when that happens."
Something moves in his expression --- not quite curiosity, but adjacent. "Most people find it annoying."
"My last apartment had a radiator that clanged every morning before my alarm. On its own. Every single morning. Like clockwork, but furious."
"Did you report it?"
