Page 146 of Suite 7

“This is nice,” she says eventually.

“It is.”

“We should—” She starts, then stops.

“Don’t.” I set down my fork. “Not yet. Can we have this? Before...”

“Yeah.” She takes my hand. “Just us.”

We clean up together. I wash. She dries.

“You have a dishwasher,” she says.

“The pans aren’t dishwasher safe.”

She looks at the pan in her hand, then at the dishwasher, then back at me. “And the plates?”

“Too delicate.”

“Mm.” She dries the pan like she’s filing this away for future use. “So everything you own is either too good for the dishwasher or organized by quadrant.”

“Left side, bottom cabinet.”

She snorts. Puts the pan away.

“So organized.”

“You say that like it’s weird.”

“It’s you.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Good.” She steps closer. “It’s good.”

I pull her in, and kiss her slow and deep.

We migrate to the couch. She curls against my side, and I wrap my arm around her.

“I could do this every Sunday,” she murmurs.

“Yeah?”

“Cook breakfast. Drink coffee. Wake up in your bed.”

“Our couch,” I correct softly.

Her breath catches. “Our couch?”

“If you want it to be.” The word sits there. I watch her face. “I’m not asking for anything.”

She presses closer. “I’d like that.”

We stay like that, time passing lazy and slow, neither of us reaching for our phones or the remote or any of the small things we’d usually use to fill silence. The city moves outside my windows. In here, nothing is required of us yet.

Eventually her gaze drifts to the clock. I follow it without thinking.

Eleven forty-five.