Page 37 of Honeyfires

"You're in the public library system, Alves. These things get documented." She finally looked up over her glasses. "How's the report?"

"Not done."

"How not done?"

"Most of it."

She held out her hand. I stared at it.

"Give it here," she said. "I'll proofread while you finish."

"You're going to proofread a fire operations report."

"I proofread everything. It's a compulsion. Hand it over." She wiggled her fingers. "You write better when someone's waiting on you. Admit it."

She was, irritatingly, correct. I handed it over. She produced a red pen from somewhere and read with undistracted focus while I worked, and when she handed it back it had two embarrassing grammatical corrections and one marginal note that said heroic and extremely attractive forewoman who also does other things very well in her neat librarian handwriting.

I did not report this to Rodriguez.

"Your turn to pick," she announced the following Tuesday, standing in front of my kitchen shelf with her hands on her hips, conducting a census of my condiment situation.

"Pick what?"

"Tonight. Dinner. I've cooked the last three times." She turned around. "Your kitchen, your call."

"You reorganized my kitchen without asking."

"I reorganized your kitchen because you were storing your olive oil next to the stove, which degrades it, and your colander was in the cabinet above the refrigerator, which is insane. That's not a power move, that's basic food safety."

"You made a map."

"I made a diagram." She produced her phone and showed me a small, hand-drawn chart of my kitchen cabinets with everything labeled in her immaculate handwriting. "It's for reference. So you can find things."

"I could find things before."

"You asked where your own colander was four separate times." She put the phone away. "What are we making?"

Twenty minutes later, she was perched on the counter watching me cook, which she'd decided was her preferred position for kitchen supervision. Her feet swung. She'd stolen my station hoodie at some point in the last week and was wearing it now over her pajama shorts, her hair loose, glasses on, the picture of someone entirely comfortable in a space.

"You're using too much heat," she said.

"I've been cooking for most of my life, baby."

"And yet." She gestured at the pan.

I turned the heat down. She made a small noise of satisfaction that was almost exactly the same sound she made in entirely different contexts, and I briefly lost my train of thought.

"Stop doing that," I said.

"Doing what?"

"Making that sound."

She looked at me with perfect, weaponized innocence. "What sound?"

"You know exactly what sound."

The corner of her mouth curved up. "I have no idea what you're talking about." She stole a piece of red pepper from the cutting board. "I think the heat's still too high, actually."