His eyes flick to mine. “These were delivered to my apartment by mistake.”
I lean against the doorframe. “Oh, good. They’re early.”
His mouth tightens, and that little muscle in his jaw ticks. “That’s impressive, considering I didn’t order them.”
“No,” I agree, taking a slow sip of my coffee. “I did. It’s one of the better ideas I’ve had at three in the morning.”
He looks down at the box again, reading the label. “Are you seriously acting like this isn’t weird?”
“What’s weird is the aerobic tap dancing you’ve been doing above my head for weeks. Those are soundproofing mats. Industrial-grade and designed to swallow vibration.”
Silence.
“They go under the flooring. Or, in your case, under the instrument of torture you call a treadmill.”
His jaw clenches, and God help me, it’s a very good jaw.
“I’m not installing new flooring, Madison.”
We stare at each other. There is that tight, humming space between us, neither of us willing to blink first.
“I didn’t agree to this,” he says.
“I know.”
“And I’m not accepting them.”
That gives me pause. My coffee cup stops halfway to my mouth. “You’re… not?”
“No.”
“Why? This wasn’t a gift, Beckett. It was a solution. An expensive, highly effective way for us to stopdisagreeing. It’s what reasonable adults do instead of murdering each other.”
He exhales through his nose.
“Because if I accept them,” he says, stepping into my personal space, “the noise becomes my responsibility. I’m the one who has to fix it.”
“Your thudding at 5 a.m. isn’t already your responsibility?” I point out, my voice rising.
His eyes darken a shade.
“You know,” I continue, “most people would say thank you and move on.”
He meets my gaze and holds it. “Most people wouldn’t order construction materials and send them to their upstairs neighbor.”
I shrug. “I’m efficient. It’s a trait.”
“I’m not installing them,” he repeats. “You can return them.”
“These are custom-cut and non-refundable. They’re yours now.”
“That sounds like ayouproblem, Madison.”
He’s still damp from the shower, and the sleeves of his black T-shirt are stretched just a little too perfectly over his arms. I hate that I’ve noticed. I hate that my body is whispering,shoulders,while my brain is screaming,hit him with the mats.
I step closer and lower my voice. “This is a both-of-us problem. I can’t sleep, and you can’t run without me wanting to set your apartment on fire. Just take the damn mats.”
He doesn’t flinch. If anything, he leans in closer. “I’ll talk to maintenance. I’ll escalate it properly. I’m not letting you pay to fix my floor.”
