Penny ignores that entirely. “That you show up,” she says. “Consistently. That’s a surprisingly rare trait in men these days.”
I nod once. “Seems like a basic requirement.”
“You’d think,” she says. “And yet.” Her gaze sharpens slightly, not unkind, just attentive. “She also says you make her nervous.”
Millie nearly chokes on nothing. “I did not—”
“You did,” Penny says. “Different words. Same meaning.”
Heat creeps up the back of Millie’s neck, visible even in the low light.
Jonas looks like he’s about to intervene and then very deliberately decides not to.
“That true?” Penny asks me.
“That I make her nervous?”
“Yes.”
I consider the question longer than it probably deserves. “I don’t go out of my way to,” I say finally.
“Good,” she replies. “Because she’s had enough to deal with without adding emotional cardio to the list.”
That lands heavier than the tone suggests.
The room shifts again, subtly.
Penny leans back into the cushions, apparently satisfied she’s gathered enough data for now. “Well,” she says, brightening just a fraction. “You’re taller than I pictured. Hotter too. She said you were hot, but notthishot.”
Millie makes a strangled sound.
Jonas loses the battle and laughs outright. “Thanks… I think?”
She tips her wine glass toward me. “You’re welcome,” she chimes, then takes a large sip of her wine.
We spend an hour like that, the four of us settling into a rhythm. Jonas sits in his armchair with his book open but largely ignored, his glasses sliding lower on his nose each time he drifts toward sleep. Millie and Penny fold into the sofa together, knees angled inward, their conversation looping through people and places I only half recognize from stories told in passing, drinking their wine. I stay at the kitchen table with my coffee, close enough to be part of it, far enough not to disrupt whatever long-standing current moves between them.
Jonas’ house has that kind of comfort you can’t manufacture. The kind that comes from years of use, of things being left where they naturally settle. Books stacked in uneven towers, cushions worn into familiarity. The confidence of a space that has never needed to prove itself welcoming.
Eventually, Penny glances at the clock and makes a small sound of reluctant acknowledgment. “Well…” she says, pushing herself upright with a theatrical sigh, “… some of us have businesses to run in the morning.”
“You mean people to terrorize with bouquets,” Millie says.
“Precision emotional logistics,” Penny corrects, already reaching for her coat.
She crosses first to Jonas, bending to kiss his cheek in an affectionate gesture. “You behave,” she tells him.
“I always do,” he replies.
She gives him a look that suggests this is historically inaccurate, then turns back to Millie and draws her into another, longer hug. Something quieter passes between them in the space of it, and when she pulls away, she leans in and murmurs something she clearly believes qualifies asa stage whisper.
It doesn’t.
“Okay,” she says. “I understand the appeal now.”
Millie’s face blooms pink almost instantly. “Penny.”
“I’m just saying,” Penny replies, lifting both hands in surrender, her expression the very picture of innocence. She pauses by the table on her way to the door, giving me one last assessing look. “You’re notentirelydisappointing,” she informs me.
