She’s changed out of her uniform and into a loose t-shirt with soft fabric and a collar just stretched enough to hang nearly off one shoulder. Her sweatpants sit low on her hips with bare feet underneath them. But her hair’s still pulled back into the same ponytail that she was sporting the night I met her. And then again when she was walking to the corner store. And again, the night she responded to that near-grab call.
The ponytail that bounces when she moves. The ponytail that I want to wrap my hand around. The ponytail I want to yank just hard enough to hear what sounds she makes.
“Hey,” she says, her soft lips tugging up slightly at the corners like she can’t help it.
“Hey,” I parrot simply.
Brilliant response, Alex.
“Come in,” she adds, stepping aside.
I do and immediately notice everything. Not consciously, just by instinct. It’s a small apartment but well laid out. The kitchen is to the left with a small bar flanked by two stools, all that can fit, to eat at. There’s a door behind that I can see a toilet through; it must be the bathroom. The main room fits a tv stand with a tv on top, a small couch just bigger than a loveseat because afull-sized couch could never fit in here, and a small coffee table between them. There’s a walkway behind the couch leading to another door that I’m assuming is the bedroom. And the other side of the couch has… stairs? Leading to the window ledge where a pale orange cat lays curled up, sound asleep.
“Stairs?” I gesture at them after she closes the door and steps up beside me.
“Yeah, Pip only has one front leg. Jumping down can be dangerous for him so I got those to make sure he can get down from the window safely. It’s one of his favorite spots; I didn’t want to deprive him.” She explains it so gently as she passes me and heads back into the kitchen where a pot sits on the stove.
I take my time following her, taking a closer look around her space. Things are where they need to be, not where they’d look best: shoes by the door instead of in a shoe rack, bag within reach, keys hanging on a hook beside the chain lock.
The kitchen looks stocked but not full. Enough for a few days, maybe a week. There’s no excess and no waste.
It’s self-sufficient in a way that I didn’t expect but that still suits her. She isn’t relying on anything she can’t control. I’ve seen it before. Just… not like this.
“Don’t judge the mess,” she says, stepping up to the stove. I can’t imagine how she thinks it’s messy; she’s probably just saying it on instinct.
“It’s not a mess.”
She glances over her shoulder. “That’s generous.”
“It’s efficient,” I correct.
That earns me a look. “Wow,” she deadpans. “You really know how to flatter a girl.”
“I’m working on it.”
She lets out a quiet laugh making something in my chest loosen. This is dangerous, the way I want more of that, more of her. I’m here for work not to flirt.
Still, I find myself leaning against the counter, watching as she moves around the kitchen with easy familiarity.
“What are you making?” I ask.
She hesitates. Then, almost defensively, she says, “mac and cheese.”
I wait.
“…from a box,” she adds.
There it is. I raise an eyebrow.
She points a wooden spoon at me. “Don’t ruin this for me.”
“I’m just trying to understand.”
“It’s good,” she insists.
“I’m sure it is.”
“It is,” she snips, full of bite. But it almost instantly evaporates. “Sorry, it was a long shift. I haven’t eaten in…” her gaze drifts to the clock over the stove. I can see the mental math she’s doing. Finally, she gives her answer. “Too long.”
