Page 100 of Glitched Play

There is a difference, it’s like my dad’s house.

Lived in.

She stirs hearing the elevator doors close in the hallway, blinking slowly at the room before her gaze finds me.

“Hey,” she says, voice soft from near-sleep.

One ordinary word shouldn’t affect me, yet my insides feel squishy.

I set my bag near the wall. “You’re awake.”

“Barely.” She shifts upright, and the bowl tilts dangerously.

I cross the room and catch it before popcorn covers the floor.

Her eyes widen. “Nice save.”

“I have excellent reflexes.”

“Of course you do.”

A small smile pulls at her mouth, and something in my chest eases in a way I don’t want to examine too closely.

She starts brushing kernels from the couch into her palm. “Sorry. I’m messier at home than I am at work.”

“I noticed.”

Her face falls slightly.

Idiot.

I sit on the edge of the adjacent chair and pick one kernel off the couch cushion, then another. “I didn’t say it was a problem.”

She studies me like she’s not sure whether to believe that.

Maybe I don’t entirely believe it either.

But it’s true.

Somehow.

“How was your trip?” she asks.

I should say efficient.

Unnecessary.

Tolerable.

Instead, I look at her sitting in my living room with popcorn on the blanket and sleep softening her face, and the honest answer arrives before I can stop it.

“Better now.”

Her hand stills over the popcorn bowl.

The television continues murmuring about collapsed pastry.

Neither of us looks at it.