Page 71 of Keller

“Well?” she asks when the trailer ends.

“I can tolerate him.”

“That’s high praise.”

She smiles faintly and starts the episode. Are we starting a show together? Or, are we just watching a show, something to do while we eat?

We eat for a few minutes in relative quiet. The dialogue between Micky and Dana is saucy and definitely interesting. She points things out, and I ask questions to prove I’m paying attention.

The problem is, my meeting with Marcus keeps pressing at the edges of my thoughts. Savannah. A name. The idea of walking into a room and finally looking this man in the eye. I don’t even know what I would say. Maybe nothing.

I finish my plate and force the thought aside. When she sets hers down, I carry both into the kitchen. She follows without asking, bumping my hip lightly when I block the sink. We rinse and stack, moving around each other in a way that feels practiced even though it isn’t.

By the time we return to the couch, the episode has rolled into a sponsored break. She tucks a throw over her legs, casual, comfortable.

“So?” she asks, turning toward me. “What’s your verdict?”

“I like it,” I say. “He does what he has to do, with no apologies. My kind of guy.”

Her gaze lingers on me for a second. “I thought you might relate.”

I'm not sure what that's supposed to mean, but I take it as a compliment and don't respond. There’s something quieter in the look she gives me now. Less teasing, more assessing.

“Thank you for dinner,” she says. “It was really good. This has been nice.”

Is she trying to end the night?

“You’re welcome.”

The room settles into a pause that isn’t awkward, just aware. The commercial continues in the background, too loud for how close we’re sitting.

I turn toward her slowly, but I don’t rush it. I give her time to shift away if she wants to.

She doesn’t.

Our mouths meet in a kiss that feels like continuation, not ignition. Familiar. Intentional. Her hand comes to my jaw first, then slides into my hair. The kiss deepens by degrees, not all at once.

I pull her closer, my hand settling at her waist. She shifts against me, fitting into the space I make without hesitation.

The show resumes, but neither of us notices. When she breaks the kiss, it isn’t to retreat. It’s to look at me. Her breathing is steady but heavier. Her eyes aren’t uncertain.

“Come with me,” she says. I stand and take her hand. The walk down the hallway is quick but not frantic. Anticipation, not impulse.

Her bedroom door swings open. She turns back to me once before we cross the threshold, as if checking something silently.

I’m still here. That seems to be enough.

"I've been thinking about this." Her voice comes rough against my throat. "Since the porch."

"Just since the porch?"

"Since the storage room. Since the night in your loft."

I groan. My hands find the hem of her shirt. She lifts her arms, and I pull it over her head. Black bra underneath. Simple. Functional. The hottest thing I've ever seen.

"You're wearing too much." I unhook the clasp with one hand.

"Then I need you to help me get more appropriate."