My legs didn’t get the memo.
“Thanks for this,” I said, fingers brushing the rim of my mug. “Seriously. It’s nice not eating cereal over my laptop for once.”
His gaze flicked to my face, steady in a way that made my chest feel too tight. “You’re welcome,” he said simply.
I stood, expecting him to do the same and vanish into whatever routine he’d built for himself here. Instead, he reached for the plates, carrying them to the sink with a casualness that felt like its own kind of miracle.
“Hey, I thought the rule was if you cook, you don’t clean.”
Wes paused and turned, gesturing to the list still hanging on the fridge. “I don’t see that rule up there.”
I playfully rolled my eyes, moving to the junk drawer to pull out a pen.
“Besides,” Wes added with his back to me. “Sometimes I like to break the rules.”
A delicious and slow tingle wove its way up my back as I suppressed a grin and wrote our new rule at the bottom.
Rule #8: The one who cooks doesn’t do the dishes.
I stood back and smiled at our silly little list.
“I think I’m going to hang out down here for a bit,” I heard myself say, the words already escaping before I could chicken out. I tipped my head toward the living room. “If that’s okay. I promise not to rearrange anything important.”
Wes glanced back at me from the sink, water running, sleeves pushed up his forearms. “You’re fine,” he said. “I was just going to read.”
A ridiculous warmth bloomed in my chest in a way that was almost embarrassing.
The armchair by the window welcomed me—the one piece of furniture that didn’t feel claimed by his insomnia. I grabbed my knitting bag from the corner and dropped into the chair, the strap thumping against the floor beside me. Kit had left it by the door with a note that said:For your boring old lady scarf.
Footsteps sounded a second later. I kept my eyes on the tangled ball of yarn in my lap, pretending not to track the way Wes crossed the room, hesitated for half a beat like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to relax in front of me, and then lowered himself onto the couch with a quiet exhale. By the time I risked a glance, he was stretched out, long and solid, with an open book.
I dug into my bag until my fingers closed around two mismatched knitting needles, clacking together like they were mocking me.
Knitting was supposed to be soothing. So far, mine looked less like a scarf and more like a cry for help.
I adjusted the yarn into my lap and tried not to feel ridiculously aware of the fact that Wes had a clear line of sight to everything I was doing. He wasn’t staring. He wasn’t hovering. He was just there, in my peripheral vision, silently taking up space.
My imagination filled in the rest.
I slid the first few stitches onto the needle, tongue caught between my teeth in concentration, the yarn snagging at all the wrong points. By the fourth attempt the whole thing looked like it had been through a bar fight.
It’s you and me, yarn. Let’s try not to humiliate ourselves in front of the hot roommate.
A page turned on the couch, the soft whisper of paper scraping paper. I could practically feel Wes’s amusement, even if he didn’t make a sound.
Staying downstairs meant he was right there. In my space. In my line of sight.
It also meant I got to be in his.
