Page 112 of Commander’s Mate

Which meant it was all important.

He hated sweet fermented milk.

I hated mayonnaise.

He had once stolen his mother’s cooking knife to practice throwing and lost it in a tree.

I had backed a mail truck into my own trash can.

His sister Meya had carved terrible stars into furniture.

My brother had once replaced all my phone contacts with character names from a television show.

For a while, the universe shrank to something survivable: not Earth, not Farseek, just a room and two people.

A door that could open.

A bed I was not forced into.

A man who wanted me and did not use wanting as permission.

Eventually I yawned.

Zared stood.

“Sleep.”

“You too.”

“I will use the couch.”

I looked at it.

Then at him.

He was enormous.

“That couch is going to file a complaint.”

“I have slept in armor on stone.”

“Show-off.”

I stood.

At the edge of the sleeping alcove, I stopped.

“Zared.”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for not talking about solmatu.”

His expression changed.

“I thought you wanted ordinary.”

“I did.”