She hesitates, just for a second, then she turns and walks down the hall.
I stand there longer than I should. Listening. The door opens. Closes. Silence. Then—water.
The shower turns on, the pipes shifting behind the walls as the sound settles into a steady rhythm. I exhale slowly and drag a hand down the back of my neck.
This is normal. Temporary. Nothing complicated about it. I repeat that in my head like it means something, but just end up giving myself a headache.
Rook watches the hallway like it’s a problem he hasn’t figured out yet. He sits near the doorway, ears perked, head tilted slightly as if he’s trying to understand where she went and why he can’t follow.
“She’ll be back,” I say.
He doesn’t look at me.
I grab a rag from the counter and start wiping down the surfaces that don’t need it, moving through the kitchen with more intention than necessary. The motion helps. Keeps my hands busy, keeps my focus on something that doesn’t require me to think too hard.
I move into the living room, straightening things that are already straight, adjusting the blanket on the couch, aligning the edge of the coffee table like I haven’t done it a hundred times before.
The shower cuts off, and I freeze. Just for a second. Then force myself to keep moving.
The door opens a minute later. Soft. Careful. I don’t turn right away, but I know she’s there. I can feel it.
“Hey,” she says.
I turn and forget what I was about to say.
She changed and now sports one of my department's long-sleeve T-shirts, which I keep neatly folded in my dresser.
It hangs loose on her, the fabric falling past her hips, the sleeves pushed up just enough to expose her wrists. Her hair is damp, pulled back loosely, a few strands clinging to the side of her neck.
There’s still a faint shadow of soot along her collarbone, something that didn’t wash away completely. Something that makes my heart seize for reasons I don’t want to examine.
“I didn’t have anything else,” she says, like she can read the thought before I say it.
“It’s fine.”
My voice comes out rougher than I intend. She watches me.
“Your bathroom needs a new faucet handle,” she says.
I blink.
“That’s what you took from that?”
“It leaks.”
I exhale through my nose.
“I’ll fix it.”
She tilts her head slightly.
“You say that like you haven’t already noticed it.”
“I’ve noticed it.”
“And?”
“I haven’t fixed it.”
