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“You can’t just say things like that when I’m tipsy.”

“Should I say worse things?”

“Yes. Immediately.”

“Okay.” He looks around the room again, considering. “The lighting is bad, like it is cloudy but indoors.”

I laugh, and the sound fills the empty studio, bouncing off the walls and ricocheting back to me. The drive home isn’t much better, with my yapping bouncing around the car.

This is not unusual, but champagne gives my thoughts less cue management than normal, so Viktor gets a fairly long explanation of the flooring supplier, the exact place I want the sofa, and why Zoe is both terrifying and correct about launch timelines.

He listens through all of it, with a hand on the wheel and the other resting loose near the gearshift. The sight makes me want to nestle my hand into the crook of his curled fingers.

“It’s suspicious how quiet you are,” I say instead.

His eyes flick briefly toward me, then back to the road. “I like listening to you.”

My mouth opens, but nothing useful comes out.

“That,” I say after a second, “was another one.”

“One what?”

“Of those things you say like it’s nothing, but it is not nothing.”

It’s everything.

He shrugs, mouth curling. “It is still true.”

“You leave tomorrow?” I ask when he turns into our building’s garage.

“Yes. In the afternoon.”

“For how long again?”

“Three games. Back Sunday.”

I nod too quickly. “Perfect. I’ll have the bed to myself with no pillow wall or waking up with my hand somewhere it shouldn’t be.”

He nods, but his fingers flex on the steering wheel.

“Yup,” I add. “It’ll be very restful.”

He parks and cuts the engine. “You do not sound pleased.”

“I’m thrilled.”

“No.”

I look at him. “No?”

“No.”

I lean back against the seat, still smiling because the champagne has not abandoned me yet. “Fine. Maybe I’ll miss having someone to blame about the pillows.”

His gaze stays on mine.

“Stop looking at me like that.”