I hold her gaze while the kitchen goes quiet around the soft movement of steam.
She smells like lavender, the same scent that clings to Cole's sweatshirts when he comes back from her place. My hand locks against the counter. Her flush climbs along her throat anyway, pink under the skin, too easy to follow.
Then my hand moves.
I do not decide to touch her. My fingers stop an inch from her jaw, close enough for the heat of her skin to make the space between us feel solid. She stays still, but her breath changes. Her gaze drops to my hand, then comes back to my face, and the tiny tap of the tea bag against the mug is too loud in the quiet.
I put my hand back on the counter.
"Your pages should be done," I say.
She sets the Barry's box down carefully between us, picks up the mug, takes one sip, and sets it beside the box.
"Thank you for the tea," she says.
Her voice stays level. The pulse in her throat does not.
She walks down the hall. The printer runs again, pages sliding free before a zipper closes. Her boots return down the hallway.
She stops at the kitchen doorway with the Chronicle bag on her shoulder and the profile inside it. The mug sits on the counter between us with one sip gone, the Barry's box beside it.
"Voss."
"Maddox."
"If I run the piece, you'll be angry."
"I'll be strategic."
"Same thing with you."
"I'll adjust. That's what I do."
She leans against the frame with one shoulder, the same position I take when I want to own a doorway. Her eyes stay on mine, and either she knows exactly what she is doing or she does not know at all.
"The tea was a nice touch," she says. "Very domestic."
"It's a box of tea."
"It's my brand." Her gaze holds mine, the flush still visible along her neck. "Behind Cole's Sleepytime."
Any answer would confirm what she is saying.
"Goodnight, Dante."
My first name hits my ribs before I can move around it.
"Goodnight, Maya."
Her name leaves my mouth slower than Maddox ever does.
Her eyes widen a fraction. The flush deepens. She turns and walks out. The front door opens, then closes.
The latch settles into place.
I stand in the kitchen with the mug on the counter, the Barry's box beside it, and steam fading into the air. My palm stays flat against the counter.
I go back to the laptop and open the Blackhawks game again.
