The espresso finishes pulling, and I hand her a cup. Our fingers brush as she takes it, and I feel the warmth of her skin against mine for just a moment before she pulls away.
She takes a sip. "Okay, that's annoyingly good.”
"I know."
"Do you always say 'I know' when someone compliments you?"
"Yes."
"That’s—Actually I don't know if that's confident or insufferable."
"Can't it be both?"
Her lips curve into a smile, and we stand there in my kitchen—my formerly pristine, unused kitchen—drinking coffee at 8 PM like this is normal.
Like she hasn't just upended my entire existence by simply existing in my space.
The city lights are starting to come on outside the windows, and the kitchen feels different now—warmer, somehow, with Harper in it.
She's left small signs of her presence already. A box of tea on the counter. A dish towel draped over the oven handle that definitely wasn't there this morning. The faint scent of her perfume mixing with the espresso.
"So," Harper says finally, breaking the silence. "Ground rules?"
"I was going to suggest the same thing."
"Great. I'll go first." She sets down her cup, and I notice the way her fingers curl around the ceramic—delicate but sure. "I do my own cooking. And I’d prefer that you or your housekeeper or whoever arranges things in here not touch the ingredients. I'll keep my stuff organized, but I need space in the fridge and pantry."
"Done."
"I'm a morning person. Like, offensively early. I'll try to be quiet, but no promises."
"I'm usually up by five anyway."
Her eyebrows rise. "On purpose?"
"To work."
"That's concerning, but okay." She continues. "I video call my sisters on Wednesdays. It's loud. I apologize in advance."
"Guest room is soundproofed."
"Of course it is." She takes another sip, and a drop of espresso clings to her bottom lip. She licks it away, and I force my gaze back to my own cup. "Your turn."
"Don't rearrange my space. Everything has a place."
"Noted. Though your space could use some rearranging."
“Beaumont.”
"Kidding. Mostly." She grins, and I notice the small dimple that appears in her left cheek. "What else?"
"If you need something, ask. Don't just... take things."
"I'm not a raccoon, Victor."
"I'm just clarifying boundaries."
"Fair." She studies me, her gaze direct and unflinching. "Anything else?"
