Page 133 of Primal

My feet don’t move. Neither does the part of me that knows exactly how this ends. Me, fixing shit I didn’t break. Her, getting under my skin with snacks, smiles, that damn freckle.

“What, scared I’ll chain you to a radiator and force you to explain how USB ports work?”

“I’ve had worse afternoons. But I’m more worried about your definition of ‘whiskey.’ Last time you called tap water ‘vodka.’”

She laughs, and something stupid twists in my chest. “It’s real whiskey. The kind that peels paint. And if that doesn’t work …” She leans in—enough to make my pulse kick. “I’ll tell Max you volunteered to help.”

Damn. The kid would never let me hear the end of it.

I step inside. “That’s blackmail.”

“Nuh-uh, that’s leverage.” She closes the door. Trails after me.

The boxes in the living room are mostly gone now, but there are books stacked sideways on every surface. A monstera already half dead.

The hallway opens into the kitchen. Smells like burnt sugar. Two fresh packs of Double Stuf Oreos. The rest of the island’s buried under bags of flour and half-used eggs. That window unit above the sink is doing its best, but it still feels like a damn sauna in here.

Payton fishes a couple of mismatched glasses from a cabinet.

The printer’s wedged between a grease-stained pizza box and what might be a router.

PC LOAD LETTER. ERROR CODE 0xFU2B.

Payton pours from a half-empty whiskey bottle and slides one to me.

The liquor burns all the way down. I cough.

Her laugh somehow fills the whole damn kitchen.

I tap the input tray. “You’re out of paper.”

“Bullshit. I loaded it yesterday.”

“With what? Napkins?” I pull out a crumpled, half-printed lease agreement. TERMS OF SURRENDER—barely visible under the coffee rings.

She snatches it from me. “It was working until—”

A single, crisp page spills out.

TEST PAGE SUCCESSFUL.

We both stare at it.

“See?” Payton says, recovering first. She smacks the side of the machine. “Just needed some encouragement.”

The printer spits out its ink cartridge.

Payton bends to pick it up—giving me a full view of legs I’ve spent the last week trying not to notice.

I drain my glass.

She straightens, fingers smudged with ink, the other hand swiping at her temple. She must be roasting too. Her tank top’s nearly translucent. A bead of sweat rolls down her collarbone, into the valley between her—

I jerk my gaze up. She’s smirking.

“The printer.” I grab a screwdriver from the counter. “I think I can fix it. Five minutes.”

She slides over the plate of cookie casualties. “These are actually edible. Ish. You sure you don’t wanna try one?”