He scraped the burnt omelette onto a plate and stared at it like it had personally offended him. The edges were crisp where they shouldn't be, the center still running clear, and the whole thing smelled more of scorched butter than egg.

"I'm never going to get this right," he muttered.

Inde looked up from where she sat at the small kitchen table, her fingers wrapped around a mug she'd refilled with coffee she didn't seem to be drinking. The gray Henley hung loose on her frame, the collar slipping off one shoulder, and she had her hair down—long black waves falling past her collarbone. He'd never seen her with her hair down before. It did something to his chest he couldn't name.

"You're trying to flip it too early," she said. "Let it set. Then you flip."

He looked at the plate again. "This one set, alright. Set on fire."

She laughed. A real one, low and surprised, like she hadn't expected to find anything funny this morning. The sound hit him somewhere behind his ribs and stayed there.

"Give it here," she said, setting down her mug and standing. She crossed the small kitchen in three steps—the space wasn't built for two people, let alone two people her height—and stood beside him at the stove. Her shoulder brushed his arm. She didn't move away.

"Watch." She picked up the spatula, tilted the pan, and showed him how the egg released from the surface when it was ready. "See how it moves? If it sticks, it's not done."

He wasn't watching the egg. He was watching her fingers, long and capable, curled around the spatula's handle. The calluses on her palm. The way her dark eyes tracked the egg's edge with a patience he didn't have.

"You're not watching," she said.

He felt his face warm. "I'm watching."

"You're watching me."

There was no accusation in it. Just a statement of fact, delivered in that quiet voice she used when she was observing something and deciding what to do with it.

"Yeah," he admitted. "I am."

She looked at him then, her head tilting in that way she had, and something passed between them—a current he couldn't name but didn't want to break. Her hand lowered the spatula. The egg sizzled in the pan, forgotten.

"You want to try again?" she asked. "With a fresh one?"

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

She stepped back, giving him room, but didn't go back to her seat. She leaned against the counter instead, arms crossed, watching. The morning light—weak and yellow through the small window above the sink—caught the curve of her jaw, the softness at the corner of her mouth.

He cracked a new egg into the bowl. Then another. Whisked them with a fork, the tines scraping against ceramic, the rhythm familiar but his hands still clumsy from her proximity.

"You're overthinking it," she said.

"I always overthink things."

"I know." There was warmth in her voice. "It's one of the things I like about you."

He poured the egg into the pan and let it sit. Didn't touch it. Let the heat do the work while he stood there, spatula in hand, hyperaware of her presence behind him.

The butter sizzled. The egg began to set at the edges, the center still liquid and trembling. He waited. Counted to ten in his head. Watched the opacity creep inward like a slow tide.

"Now," she said softly.

He slid the spatula under the edge, lifted, and flipped. The omelette landed clean, folded over on itself in a neat half-moon, the top still glistening but the bottom golden brown.

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"There you go," Inde said. "That's the guy I saw at the shelter. The one who actually knows what he's doing."

He looked at her over his shoulder. She was smiling. Small, genuine, her dark eyes soft in a way he was still learning to recognize.

"You saw me at the shelter," he said. "That doesn't mean I knew what I was doing."

"You knew how to hold a ladle. That's more than most people bring."

He slid the omelette onto a clean plate and held it out to her. "Here. You earned it."

She raised an eyebrow. "I watched you cook one egg."

"You coached me through it. That counts."

She took the plate, their fingers brushing in the transfer. Her skin was warm. The contact lasted less than a second, but he felt it in his fingertips for a long moment after.

"Sit," he said. "Eat. I'll make myself another one."

She sat. Picked up her fork. Cut a piece of the omelette and put it in her mouth, and he watched her chew, watched her swallow, watched her eyes flicker with something like surprise.

"It's good," she said.

"Don't sound so shocked."

"I'm not shocked. I'm impressed." She cut another piece. "There's a difference."

He turned back to the stove, feeling lighter than he had all morning. The second egg went easier. He didn't rush. He let the heat do its work, watched the edges set, waited for the moment she'd taught him to recognize. The omelette flipped clean, the butter not quite burning, the smell rising warm and golden instead of acrid.

He slid it onto his own plate and sat across from her at the small table. The table was round, barely big enough for two, and their knees almost touched underneath. He tucked his feet back, old habit, making himself smaller in a space that didn't ask him to.

Inde noticed. He saw it in the way her eyes dropped to his knees, then lifted to his face. She didn't say anything. But the silence itself felt like a question.

They ate in quiet for a minute. The fork against the plate. The tick of the wall clock. The distant hum of a car passing on the street below. It should have felt awkward—two people sharing breakfast the morning after she'd stayed over, the shape of what they were still undefined—but it didn't. It felt like something he could get used to.

"What time is your date?" she asked. Her voice was casual. Almost too casual.

He looked up. "Seven."

"That's still a while." She speared a piece of egg. "Plenty of time to overthink it."

He huffed a laugh. "Thanks. That helps."

"I'm not trying to help. I'm stating a fact." She chewed, swallowed. "You're going to overthink it no matter what I say. Might as well own it."

"You know me pretty well for someone who's only known me a few weeks."

"I pay attention." She said it simply, like it was nothing, but the weight of it settled between them. She paid attention. To him. To what he did and didn't do, to the way he held a spatula and the way he tucked his feet under his chair. The thought made him feel seen in a way that was both terrifying and good.

He finished his eggs and set down his fork. "What are you going to do today?"

She shrugged. "Go home. Change. Maybe visit my brother." She paused. "He texted me this morning. Wants to know if I'm coming home for dinner this week."

"Are you?"

"I don't know. My mom and I don't... it's complicated." She said it without elaboration, and he didn't push. He was learning that she gave what she wanted to give, and the rest she held close. He respected that. He understood it.

"Well," he said, "if you need a place to not be complicated, my door's open."

She looked at him. Her dark eyes held his for a long moment, something shifting in them—gratitude, maybe. Or surprise that he'd offered it so simply.

"I know," she said. "That's why I'm still here."

He felt the words land in his chest and settle there, warm and solid.

The omelette sat in the bowl, just one left, untouched. He'd thought about cooking it, but the meal felt done. The morning had a shape to it now, a rhythm they'd fallen into without planning it, and the last egg felt like an option they didn't need to take.

He stood to clear the plates. She stood too, reaching for her mug, and they moved around each other in the cramped kitchen with a wordless coordination that surprised him. She handed him her plate. He took it. Their shoulders brushed. She didn't step back.

He ran the water, letting it heat before he squirted soap onto the sponge. She leaned against the counter beside him, her hip against the edge, her coffee mug cradled in both hands. The silence was comfortable, filled with the sound of running water and the faint clink of ceramic against ceramic.

"Riley."

He looked up.

She was watching him with that steady, observing gaze. "Thank you. For breakfast. For this morning." She gestured vaguely, encompassing the kitchen, the half-washed plates, the burnt-butter smell still hanging in the air. "For all of it."

"You don't have to thank me."

"I know. That's why I am."

He turned off the water. Dried his hands on a dish towel. Faced her fully, the counter at his back, the sink dripping behind him. She was close. Close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her dark irises, the small scar above her left eyebrow that she never talked about, the way her pulse beat at the base of her throat.

"I want you to know," he said, the words coming out slower than he'd intended, "that whatever happens today—with Jasmine, with any of this—it doesn't change what I feel about you."

Her expression didn't shift, but something in her posture softened. The tension he hadn't realized she was holding released, a quiet exhale, a slight drop of her shoulders.

"I know," she said again.

And she believed it. He could see it in her eyes. She trusted him, and the weight of that trust was the heaviest, most precious thing anyone had ever given him.

His phone buzzed against the counter tile.

The sound was ordinary—a short vibration, the kind that signaled a text, not a call—but it cut through the moment like a blade. They both looked at it. The screen glowed, face-up, a notification visible from where they stood.

He wiped his hands on the towel again, though they were already dry, and picked it up.

Jasmine's name.

The message preview showed the first few words: Hey! So funny story about tonight...

He opened it before he could think about whether he should read it alone first. The words appeared, full and unguarded, and he heard himself read them aloud before he could stop.

"'Hey! So funny story about tonight. The ramen place called—they had a cancellation, so they can take us at 4 instead of 7 if we want the good table by the window. I told them yes before asking you because I'm a menace. Hope that's okay! Let me know.'"

He finished reading. Stared at the screen. The words sat there, bright and casual, full of Jasmine's loud, laughing energy, pulling the day forward by three hours.

Three hours.

He looked up.

Inde's hand had stilled on the counter. Her fingers rested flat against the laminate, no longer curled around her mug, no longer reaching for anything. She was looking at the phone in his hand, her face unreadable, and he watched her process the shift—watched the information land and settle and rearrange itself behind her dark eyes.

The kitchen felt smaller. The air thicker. The clock on the wall ticked one second, then another, and the morning that had felt so open, so full of hours, suddenly had a shape he hadn't chosen.

She met his eyes. Her voice, when it came, was steady. Carrying an edge of quiet recalibration rather than jealousy—a woman adjusting her footing on ground that had shifted beneath her.

"Guess you should get ready sooner than planned."

He didn't move. The phone hung in his hand like it was made of something heavier than glass and metal, and the kitchen—small enough before—felt like it was closing in around them. The clock ticked. The water dripped in the sink. Inde stood on the other side of the counter, watching him, and the quiet in her posture wasn't the kind that meant she'd checked out. It was the kind that meant she was holding space for whatever came next.

"What would you do?" The question came out before he'd fully decided to ask it. He didn't look at her when he said it. He looked at the phone, at Jasmine's name on the screen, at the words that had turned his morning sideways.

She didn't answer right away. He heard her shift her weight, the soft scrape of her bare foot against the tile. She was still wearing his Henley. Still barefoot. Still here, in a kitchen that smelled like burnt butter and eggs, while he stood there holding a text from another woman.

"If you were me," he said, and now he looked up. Met her eyes. "What would you do?"

She held his gaze. Her face was calm, but he'd learned to read the small things—the way her fingers tightened around her mug, the slight press of her lips before she spoke. She was thinking. Really thinking, not just looking for the easy answer.

"I'd go," she said.

The words landed clean, no hesitation, but he saw the cost of them in the way her throat moved when she swallowed.

"That's not—" He stopped. Shook his head. "I don't want you to just tell me what you think I need to hear."

"I'm not." She set her mug down on the counter, both hands free now, turned toward him fully. "You asked. I answered. I'd go."

"Why?"

She took a breath. Let it out slow. "Because you said it doesn't change what you feel about me. And I believe you." Her voice was steady, but there was something underneath it—a roughness, like the words were scraping against something on the way out. "If you cancel on her to prove something to me—to prove you're loyal, or to make me feel better—it proves the wrong thing. It proves you don't trust me to handle this."

He stared at her. The phone was still in his hand, but he wasn't seeing it anymore. He was seeing her. The way her shoulders held square even when he knew they were tired. The way she looked at him like she'd already decided he was worth the hard thing.

"You'd really be okay with it?"

"I didn't say okay." Her voice dropped. "I said I'd go."

The difference landed in his chest like a stone dropped into still water. Ripples spread outward, touching everything. She wasn't pretending it didn't hurt. She was just choosing the hurt that let him be whole.

He set the phone down on the counter. Face-up. Screen still glowing. He turned away from it, toward her, and the distance between them was three steps that felt like the longest walk of his life.

He took them.

She didn't move when he stepped into her space. Didn't back up, didn't brace herself. She held his gaze, steady and open, and he saw the trust there. The trust he'd been carrying since she'd kissed him first, since she'd proposed this whole impossible arrangement, since she'd shown up at his door this morning wearing his shirt and holding coffee she'd made because she remembered how he took it.

He reached for her hand. Her fingers were warm, callused in the places he was learning to know—her palm, the side of her index finger, the heel of her hand. He lifted them to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Slow. Deliberate. A promise he didn't have words for.

Her breath caught. Just barely. A hitch he wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been paying attention, if he hadn't been learning the shape of her silence.

"Riley."

He looked up, still holding her hand.

Her composure cracked. A hairline fracture, visible only to someone who'd been watching. Her dark eyes were bright, not quite wet, but close. Her voice, when she spoke, was softer than he'd ever heard it.

"You're not going to lose me," she said. "You don't have to hold on so tight."

He shook his head. "I'm not holding on to keep you. I'm holding on because I want to."

She searched his face. Whatever she found there made something in her posture release—a tension he hadn't seen her carry until it was gone. She stepped closer, into the space he'd opened, and pressed her palm flat against his chest. Over his heart. The same gesture from game night, the one that had felt like a claim.

"Then go," she said. "Have ramen. Let Jasmine have her window seat. Come back." She held his gaze. "I'll be here."

He covered her hand with his own. Felt her fingers curl against his chest. The warmth of her palm through the thin fabric of his t-shirt.

"I don't deserve you," he said.

"That's not for you to decide."

He laughed. A short, surprised sound that cracked the weight of the moment. She smiled, small and real, and the sight of it—the crinkle at the corner of her eye, the soft press of her lips—made something in his chest loosen that he hadn't realized was clenched.

He leaned in. Pressed his forehead to hers. Closed his eyes and breathed her in—coffee and something floral from the soap she'd used this morning, warm skin and the faint trace of sleep still clinging to her.

"I'll come back," he said.

"I know."

He stayed there a moment longer. Let himself feel the weight of her trust, the shape of this thing they were building. Then he pulled back, slow, and let his hand fall from hers.

The phone was still on the counter. Still glowing. Jasmine's name still on the screen.

He reached for it.

His fingers brushed the edge of the screen, and he paused. Looked at Inde one more time. She was leaning against the counter, arms crossed now, but there was no wall between them. She nodded. Just once.

He picked up the phone. Typed a response before he could overthink it.

Yeah, 4 works. See you there.

Sent.

The phone buzzed almost immediately with Jasmine's reply—a string of emojis and exclamation points that he didn't fully read. He set it down, face-down this time, and looked at Inde.

"I have three hours," he said.

The kitchen settled around them, the morning's shape redrawn. Three hours. The words hung in the air like a new room they'd both stepped into.

Inde's arms were still crossed, but her posture had shifted—the guard she'd carried when she first said I'd go had softened into something closer to rest. She looked at him, then at the phone, then back at him, and he watched her make a choice. She uncrossed her arms. Let them fall to her sides. Took a step that closed the gap he'd left when he'd reached for the phone.

"Three hours," she repeated. "That's a lot of time to stand in a kitchen staring at each other."

The corner of her mouth twitched. Barely. But it was there.

He huffed a laugh, the tension in his shoulders releasing a fraction. "You're saying we should do something productive?"

"I'm saying you should shower." She said it flat, but her eyes gave her away—warm, amused, watching him like she knew exactly what that suggestion would do to him. "You smell like burnt butter."

He looked down at himself. The t-shirt he'd thrown on this morning, the same one he'd slept in. He hadn't thought about how he looked, hadn't thought about anything past the text and the decision and the weight of her hand on his chest. But she was right. He should shower. Should change. Should do something other than stand here wanting to stay.

"You're not wrong," he admitted.

"I know." She reached past him, her arm brushing his chest as she picked up her mug from the counter. The contact was brief, but deliberate—she didn't pull away faster than necessary. She took a sip of the coffee, cold now, and made a face. "I should probably get dressed too. Go home. Let you have your space."

The words were practical. Sensible. Everything about them made sense. But he heard the question underneath—the one she wasn't asking, the one she was leaving for him to answer.

"You don't have to go," he said.

She looked at him over the rim of her mug. "I'm wearing your shirt, Riley. Your neighbors are going to start talking."

"Let them talk."

She set the mug down. Her fingers lingered on the ceramic, tracing the rim once, a gesture so small he almost missed it. "You need to get ready. I need to—" She stopped. Shook her head. "I don't know what I need. I just know I can't stay in this kitchen for three hours watching you pace."

"I don't pace."

"You paced last night. When you thought I was asleep. I heard you."

He opened his mouth. Closed it. She'd been awake. She'd heard him moving through the dark, tracing the same path from the bedroom to the window and back, while she'd been wrapped in his sheets wearing his shirt. The thought made his face warm.

"I was thinking," he said.

"I know." Her voice softened. "You think loud."

They stood there, the sink still dripping, the clock still ticking, the morning light shifting through the window as the sun climbed higher. Three hours. It felt like both too much and not enough.

She broke first. Reached out and touched his wrist, her fingers resting against his pulse. "Go shower. I'll wash the dishes."

He looked at the plates in the sink. The omelette pan. The mess of their morning together. "You don't have to do that."

"I know." She squeezed his wrist once, then let go. "I want to."

He stood there for a long moment, caught between the urge to stay and the knowledge that she was giving him room to breathe. She was always giving him room. Always meeting him where he was, never asking him to be somewhere else.

"Okay," he said. It came out quieter than he'd meant it to.

She nodded. Turned to the sink. Ran the water, the sound filling the space between them, and he watched her pick up the sponge and start on the plate he'd left behind.

He didn't move right away. He watched her hands work—the same hands that had held his on the porch, that had pressed flat against his chest, that had curled around his wrist like she was steadying herself on him. She was wearing his clothes, washing his dishes, standing in his kitchen like she belonged there.

She looked over her shoulder. Caught him staring. Raised an eyebrow.

"You're still here."

"I'm going."

He didn't go. He took a step backward, toward the hallway, but his feet felt rooted to the tile. She turned back to the sink, and the movement made his Henley ride up, just a little, exposing a strip of her lower back.

He swallowed. Turned. Walked to the bathroom before he could do something stupid like cross the kitchen and wrap his arms around her and not let go until the three hours had passed.

“Screw it. I’m showering with you.” Inde said.

“What?” Riley’s face blushed as she walked by him into the bathroom, Riley still standing in the doorway, eventually turns. A few minutes pass.

He reached past her, his arm brushing her shoulder, and twisted the shower handle. The pipes groaned, a familiar complaint, and then water began to stream from the showerhead, hitting the tub floor with a hollow patter. Steam rose, slow at first, then thicker, fogging the mirror and softening the harsh light.

She stepped back, giving him room, and hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her underwear. The fabric slid down her hips, over the curve of her thighs, past her knees, and she stepped out of it. She was fully bare now, standing in the middle of his bathroom, the steam beginning to curl around her calves.

He felt his mouth go dry. She was all long lines and soft curves—the strong column of her throat, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, the dark triangle at the junction of her thighs. Her skin held the memory of sunlight in places, a faint tan line where her volunteer T-shirts usually sat. The scar above her left eyebrow was a thin white line, barely visible in the dim light.

She caught him looking and didn't look away. Didn't cover herself. She let him see her, all of her, and the trust in that—the vulnerability of standing naked in front of someone and not flinching—hit him harder than any of the heat.

"You're staring," she said. Her voice was quiet, but there was no accusation in it.

"I can't help it."

The corner of her mouth lifted. She reached for the waistband of his boxers, her knuckles brushing against his stomach, and paused. Her eyes asked the question her voice didn't.

He nodded.

She pulled them down. The fabric dragged over his hips, his thighs, his knees. He stepped out of them, and they joined the pile of clothes on the floor, and then he was as bare as she was, standing in front of her with nothing between them but the thickening steam.

Her eyes traveled down his body. He felt the weight of her gaze on his chest, his stomach, lower. She didn't rush. She looked at him the way she looked at everything—with attention, with care, with a stillness that made him feel like he was the only thing in the room worth seeing.

Her hand found his. She squeezed once, then let go and stepped past him toward the shower. The curtain rattled on its rings as she pulled it aside. She tested the water with her fingers, adjusted the handle, and stepped under the stream.

Water hit her shoulders, streaming over her skin, darkening her hair from black to deep charcoal. She turned her face into the spray, her eyes closing, her breath catching as the heat hit her. Rivulets traced down her neck, over her collarbones, between her breasts. She looked like something from a painting—water and skin and steam, all soft edges and warm light.

She opened her eyes. Looked at him over her shoulder. "You coming?"

He stepped out of the pile of clothes and crossed the small distance to the shower. The curtain opened wider as he pulled it back, and he stepped under the spray beside her, the water hot against his skin, the space inside the tub suddenly smaller with both of them in it.

Her back was to the wall, the tile cool against her shoulders. The showerhead was fixed, not detachable, and the water streamed between them, splashing off his shoulders and hers in equal measure. She didn't press against him, didn't reach for him. She stood there, letting the water run over her, watching him through the steam like she was waiting for him to lead.

The water was hot. Almost too hot. It beat against his shoulders, loosening the knot between his shoulder blades, and he let himself feel the full shape of the moment—her naked in his shower, the steam curling around them, the scent of his soap rising from her wet skin.

He reached for the small bottle of shampoo on the ledge. Squeezed some into his palm, the gel cool against his heated skin. He looked at her, asking permission without words.

She tilted her head forward, her wet hair falling over her face, an invitation.

He stepped closer. The water hit his back now, missing her, and he brought his hands to her hair. The shampoo spread through the dark strands, his fingers working through the length of it, working the gel into a lather. Her hair was soft, heavier than he'd expected, and he was careful, gentle, his fingertips massaging her scalp in slow circles.

She made a sound. Low and quiet, barely audible over the rush of water. A sound of surrender, of letting go. Her shoulders, which he hadn't realized were still holding tension, dropped. Her hands came up to rest on his hips, her fingers finding the jut of bone there, holding on like he was an anchor in the current.

"Riley."

Her voice was different. Thicker. Softer. Like it had been stripped of something she usually carried.

"Yeah?"

"This is—" She stopped. Breathed. "I didn't know it could feel like this."

"Like what?"

"Safe." She said the word like it cost her something. "I didn't know being this close to someone could feel safe."

His hands stilled in her hair. The lather was dripping down her neck, tracing paths over her collarbones, and he watched a drop hang at the hollow of her throat before falling into the water streaming between them.

"I want it to feel safe," he said. "I want you to feel like you can be here. Like this. And it's okay."

She lifted her head. Looked at him through wet lashes, her dark eyes bright in the steam. Water dripped from her chin, her nose, the ends of her hair. She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

She leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his. The kiss was different from the others—slower, deeper, less urgent. It tasted like water and warmth and something that felt like a beginning. Her hands slid from his hips to his lower back, her fingers pressing against his skin, and he pulled her closer, his arms wrapping around her, the remaining shampoo washing away in the stream between them.

Her body pressed against his, full length, skin to skin. He felt every point of contact—her breasts against his chest, her stomach against his, her thighs brushing his. The water streamed over them both, hot and steady, and he lost track of where he ended and she began.

She pulled her mouth from his and pressed her cheek against his chest. Her arms tightened around him. The water beat against his back, and she held him, her ear over his heart, and he felt her breathing slow and deepen.

"Three hours," she said against his skin.

"Three hours."

"We should probably actually wash at some point."

He laughed. The sound vibrated through his chest, and he felt her smile against his skin. "Probably."

She pulled back, just far enough to look up at him. Her fingers traced a line down his sternum, over his stomach, following the trail of wet hair. She didn't go lower. She let her hand rest at his hip, her thumb tracing idle patterns on his skin.

"I'm not doing this to distract you," she said. "I'm doing this because I want to remember what it feels like to be this close to you before you go."

The words settled in his chest, warm and heavy. He covered her hand with his, pressing her palm flat against his hip.

"I don't want to go."

"I know." She held his gaze. "That's why I know you'll come back."

The water was starting to run cool. The steam was thinning. The morning was moving forward, whether he wanted it to or not. He reached past her and turned the handle, and the water slowed, then stopped, dripping into the silence.

They stood there for a long moment, wet and warm, the air cooling around them. Then she reached past him and pulled the curtain open, letting the cold air rush in.

She stepped out first. He watched her reach for a towel, the way her back curved as she dried her arms, the way she wrapped the towel around her body without covering herself completely. She handed him a second towel, dry and folded, from the rack.

He took it. Dried his face first, then his chest, his arms, his legs. The fabric was rough against his skin, and the cold air raised goosebumps on his arms.

She was already reaching for his Henley, the one she'd worn all morning. She pulled it over her head, still damp in places, and the fabric clung to her skin in patches, dark where the water hadn't dried. She turned to look at him, her hair wet and curling at the ends, her face soft and open in a way he was still learning to recognize.

"You should get dressed," she said. "You have a date."

The words didn't land like a stone this time. They settled, quiet and present, a fact he could hold without it cutting.

He nodded. Reached for his own towel again, dried his hair, then dropped the towel and walked past her into the bedroom. She followed, barefoot, her steps soft on the floorboards.

The bedroom was bright, the morning light streaming through the window, catching the dust motes suspended in the air. His bed was unmade, the sheets tangled where they'd slept. His dresser sat against the far wall, the top drawer half-open.

He pulled on boxers. Jeans. A fresh t-shirt, gray, soft from washing. She watched from the doorway, leaning against the frame, his Henley hanging loose on her damp skin.

"You could keep that," he said, gesturing at the shirt. "I have others."

She looked down at herself. Ran her fingers over the damp fabric at her collarbone. "You trying to build a collection at my place?"

"Maybe."

She smiled. Small, real, the corner of her mouth lifting in a way that did something to his chest.

By the time he'd pulled on socks and found his shoes, the clock on his nightstand read 3:14. Forty-six minutes before he needed to leave, and the walk to the ramen shop was twelve minutes if he walked fast.

He looked at her. She was still in the doorway, still wearing his shirt, her wet hair darkening the fabric at her shoulders. She looked back at him, and the quiet between them held everything they'd already said and everything they didn't need to say again.

"I'll be here," she said.

He crossed the room. Took her face in his hands, gentle, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones. He kissed her forehead, slow, letting his lips linger on her skin.

"I know you will."

He let his hands fall from her face, but his fingers caught hers, threading together at his side. The clock on the nightstand ticked forward. 3:16. He could feel the minutes slipping past, each one a small subtraction from the time they had left.

"You should probably put on proper clothes," she said. "In case Jasmine wants to take a picture for the group chat."

He laughed, quiet and surprised. "She would do that."

"She absolutely would." Inde's thumb traced across his knuckles. "And you want to look like you made an effort."

He looked down at himself. Gray t-shirt, jeans, socks. The same thing he wore most days. "This isn't effort?"

"It's comfortable." She squeezed his hand. "That's different."

She let go and crossed to his dresser, her bare feet silent on the floorboards. She pulled open the second drawer, where he kept his nicer shirts—the ones his mom had bought him, the ones he only wore to family dinners and funerals. She ran her fingers over the folded fabric, considering, then pulled out a dark navy button-up. The fabric was soft, worn in from the few times he'd worn it, but clean and pressed.

"This one," she said.

He took it from her. The fabric was cool in his hands. "You're picking my clothes now?"

"I'm helping." She crossed her arms, the Henley riding up just enough to show the curve of her hip. "You're hopeless on your own."

He pulled the t-shirt off over his head and tossed it onto the bed. The air hit his bare skin, cool after the warmth of the shower, and he felt her eyes on him. He didn't look at her as he shrugged into the button-up, working the buttons one by one from the bottom up. His fingers were clumsy, the way they always were with small things, and he fumbled the third button before she stepped forward and batted his hands away.

"Let me."

She stood close, her fingers working the button through the hole with quick, practiced ease. Her knuckles brushed his chest through the open fabric, and he held his breath. She did the next one, and the next, her eyes focused on her work, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. When she reached the top button, she paused. Left it undone.

"There," she said. "Now you look like you tried."

She smoothed the fabric over his shoulders, her palms flat against his chest, and let them rest there. The gesture was soft, almost maternal, but the way her eyes lingered on his mouth was anything but.

"Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome."

She stepped back. The distance felt larger than the few inches she'd created. The clock read 3:21. Nineteen minutes before he needed to walk out the door.

"I should—" He gestured vaguely toward the door. "Shoes. Wallet. Phone."

"You should."

He didn't move. Neither did she. The moment stretched, thin and electric, held together by the weight of everything they'd already said.

"I want to kiss you again," he said. "Before I go."

"Then do it."

He stepped forward. Cupped her jaw, his thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone. She tilted her face up to meet him, her eyes already closing, and he kissed her. Slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that said everything he couldn't fit into words. Her hands found his hips, pulling him closer, and he let himself sink into the warmth of her mouth, the press of her body against his, the soft sound she made when he deepened the kiss.

He pulled back first. His forehead rested against hers, their breath mingling in the small space between them.

"I'll be back before you know it," he said.

"I know." Her voice was steady, but her fingers gripped his hips like she was steadying herself. "I'll be here. Probably still wearing your shirt."

He smiled. Pressed one more kiss to the corner of her mouth, soft and quick, and let go.

He found his wallet on the nightstand. His phone, still face-down where he'd left it after texting Jasmine. He slid it into his pocket without looking at the screen. His keys were on the kitchen counter, next to the half-washed dishes she'd left in the sink.

He stopped in the doorway. Looked back at her. She was sitting on the edge of his bed, her legs crossed, his Henley slipping off one shoulder. The morning light caught the damp ends of her hair, the soft curve of her bare knee. She looked like she belonged there.

"I'll text you," he said.

"You'd better."

He smiled. Then he turned and walked out the door, the click of the latch behind him the only sound in the quiet apartment.