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Stepping back required effort. His arms loosened slowly, like he was reluctant to let go. I straightened my shirt, which didn’t need straightening, and ran a hand through my hair, which absolutely needed the help.

“I have lunch upstairs,” I said. “It’s not much. Crackers. Cheese that might be slightly old. I can make sandwiches if you’re not picky about bread freshness.”

“Are you inviting me to lunch?”

“I’m inviting you to lunch.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “As a thank-you. For the water tank. And the faucet. And the disposal. And the light fixture. And for not blocking my number.”

Deadeye tucked his hands into his pockets. The grin hadn’t faded. “I’d like that.”

Gathering his tools, he followed me up the basement stairs. My apartment was on the fourth floor, a walk-up that left me slightly winded by the time we reached the door. The key stuck in the lock the way it always did, and I jiggled it with practiced frustration.

“Welcome to my humble disaster,” I said, pushing the door open.

My apartment was small. The couch took up most of the living room. The kitchen was really just a corner with appliances. The suit bag was still visible through my bedroom door, a dark rectangle propped against the wall.

Deadeye took it all in without comment. His gaze passed over the thrift store art on my walls, the stack of fashion magazines on the coffee table, the single plant I’d managed to keep alive for six months. If he noticed the mess or the lack of space, he didn’t show it.

“Nice place,” he said.

“It’s a shoebox with ambitions.”

“Good ambitions.”

Kicking off my boots, I headed for the kitchen. The refrigerator held exactly what I’d promised. Cheese. Crackers. Bread that was slightly stiff but not yet green. I pulled everything out and set it on the counter.

“Sit,” I said, gesturing at the small table near the window. “I’ll assemble what passes for food.”

He sat. The chair creaked under him but held. Afternoon light came through the window, catching the olive tones of his skin, the dark of his hair. He looked comfortable. Like he belonged in my tiny apartment with its cracked ceiling and its borrowed furniture.

Assembling the sandwiches took three minutes. Two slices of bread, cheese, crackers on the side because I was feeling generous. I set the plate in front of him with a flourish.

“Gourmet,” I said.

“Five stars.”

Sitting across from him, I ate my own sandwich and tried not to overthink the fact that he was here. In my apartment. After kissing me in the basement. After three days of phone calls and one very memorable car repair.

“Why did you give me your number?” I asked.

Deadeye took a bite of the sandwich, chewed, and swallowed before he answered. He didn’t rush it, which somehow made me more aware of him sitting at my tiny table in a chair too small for him, grease still faintly caught near one knuckle.

Outside my window, someone shouted down in the lot. A car door slammed. My fridge kicked on with a tired hum. I picked at the edge of a cracker and tried to look casual instead of like a man waiting to hear whether a near-stranger thought he was charming or simply impossible.

“Because I wanted you to call,” he said.

I took a bite of my sandwich to buy myself a second. The bread was stale enough to count as punishment. His gaze stayed on me, and I had to set the sandwich down before I choked on my own nerves.

“That’s dangerously straightforward,” I said.

He leaned back in the chair a little, one forearm resting on the table. Afternoon light caught the blue in his eyes and warmed it. “You asked.”

I looked down at my plate and smiled despite myself. The cheese had gone soft at the edges from sitting out. My apartment smelled faintly of the oil and soap he’d brought in with him. It was unfairly nice.

“Well, now I feel underdressed for honesty.”

His mouth pulled at one corner. “You don’t look underdressed to me.”

Heat climbed into my face so fast it felt rude. I reached for a cracker, missed it, then grabbed it on the second try like I had full control over my motor skills. I didn’t. He noticed. I knew he noticed. He had the grace not to comment.