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The sunny room.

The little room, once, after which we had both gone quiet for reasons that were not remotely architectural.

Josie was coming over to use it at nine.

It was 8:16.

I picked up the other half of my toast.

Cash came off the counter.

“I will chew nicely,” I said.

“You said that with the tone of somebody about to break a contract.”

“It’s toast, not a contract.”

He took the toast from my hand.

I looked at the empty space between my fingers. “Cash.”

“Priya.”

“I am eating.”

“You’re loading breakfast like stock before a storm.”

“Josie will be here in forty-four minutes.”

“And?”

“And I still have to put out the pens.”

“The pens are out.”

“The paper.”

“Out.”

“The new stickers.”

“Sorted by subject.”

I stared at him.

He smiled. Dimples. Green eyes. Sandy hair still damp from the shower and standing up where he had dragged a hand through it.

“You sorted them?”

“Animals, stars, hats, flowers, trucks.”

“You put hats in their own category?”

“There were enough hats.”

I reached for the toast.

He lifted it out of range.