"Maya," I say. "Stay tonight. It's late, and you've been drinking."
"I've had half a glass."
"Stay anyway. The spare room's yours."
"My apartment has heat now."
"I know. Stay because I'm asking."
She looks at me. Reads me. Her eyes move to Dante for a half-second. Back to me.
"Fine."
Every muscle in Dante's body commits to stillness.
When we're done, I stand and collect the bowls. As I pass behind Maya's stool, my hand lands on her shoulder. The same spot. The same pressure I've been placing there since we were kids. But this time my thumb finds the ridge of her neck and traces along it, slow, the way I've been pushing the boundary for weeks.
She doesn't correct it.
She leans into my hand, her head tilting toward my wrist, her eyes closing for a half-second. The lean is visible. Unmistakable.
Across the counter, Dante sets his water glass down. His phone screen goes dark in his hand. He's stopped pretending to read it.
My thumb traces the line of her neck one more time before I lift my hand and carry the bowls to the sink.
Maya does the dishes. She insists. I dry. Dante sits at the counter with his phone. Maya's sleeves are pushed to her elbows, her forearms in the water, and Dante's eyes drift to her wrists twice before he catches himself.
The second time, Maya is watching him in the reflection of the window above the sink.
She doesn't look away.
He does.
I stand beside her at the sink. Our hips almost touch. She hands me a plate, and our wet fingers slide together. She holds the contact for a beat too long before letting go.
My breath catches.
She hears it. The corner of her mouth curves without looking at me.
Behind us, Dante watches from the counter. I can feel his eyes on the back of my neck. On the space between Maya's hip and mine. On the way she leans into my arm when she reaches for the sponge.
There are three people in this kitchen, two of them just had sex, and one of them knows.
At ten, Maya goes upstairs to the spare room and closes the door behind her. I hear it open again a few minutes later, then hear her in the hallway, testing the boards, learning which ones creak between the spare room and the bathroom. She's done this in every new space since she was thirteen. Every house, every hotel room, every apartment. The floorboard map before she closes her eyes.
Dante hears it too. We're sitting in the living room, and his head tilts toward the sound.
"She does that," I say.
"I know."
I stand up. "Come to bed."
He follows me to his room. The door closes behind us. He's at his dresser, back to me, pulling his shirt over his head. It drops to the floor. The tattoos I've memorized. His shoulders stay tense under the ink.
I cross the room and stand behind him.
My hands land on his shoulders hard enough to make my fingers ache, and my grip tightens before I choose it.
