"Principessa, you failed on day one. I've been running damage control ever since."
She throws the filter at me. It hits my chest and falls to the floor, and she turns back to the counter with her arms crossed, and the set of her shoulders saysI will murder you in your sleep,but the corner of her mouth says something else entirely.
I cross the kitchen. Stand behind her. Reach around her to fix the filter, and my chest presses against her back and my arms bracket her body and she goes very still. Not scared. Aware. I can feel her breathing change, the slight hitch, the way her weight shifts back into me by a fraction of an inch.
"Seam out," I say against her ear.
"You're insufferable."
"You like it."
"I tolerate it. There's a difference."
I press the power button. The machine gurgles to life. I don't move. My mouth is an inch from her ear, and her hair smells like my shampoo and the warmth of her body against my chest is making it very difficult to think about anything that involves leaving this kitchen.
"Claudio."
"Mm."
"The coffee's brewing."
"I know."
"So you can let go of the machine."
"I'm not holding the machine."
She turns her head. Our faces are close enough that I can count the freckles on the bridge of her nose. Three. I've counted them before. I'll count them again.
And again.
"We have work to do," she says. But she doesn't move.
"We do."
"Important work. Mole-catching work. The kind that involves phone calls and plans and not standing in a kitchen breathing on each other."
"You're right."
Neither of us moves for another five seconds. Then she ducks under my arm and takes her fine ass to the table and sits downcross-legged in the chair and looks at me with an expression that saysI know exactly what you were doing and it almost worked.
I pour two coffees. Black for both. One sugar in hers. I set it in front of her, and she wraps both hands around it and takes a sip and closes her eyes.
"It's good," she says.
"It's always good. You've just been taking credit."
"I have literally never taken credit for the coffee."
"You accepted it without question. That's credit adjacent."
She kicks me under the table. Light. Her bare foot against my shin. I catch her ankle and hold it, my hand wrapped around the bone, my thumb on the tendon. She looks at me over the rim of her mug.
"We really do have work to do," she says. Softer now.
"I know." I release her ankle. "Whenever you're ready."
She takes another sip. Sets the mug down. Pulls her legs up into the chair and wraps her arms around her knees. The posture of someone settling in for something difficult.
