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She leans against the doorframe and stares at me. “Alexei.”

“What?”

“You need to stop doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“This.” She gestures vaguely at the kitchen, at me, at the apartment in general. “Handling everything. While I’m passed out on your couch like some kind of freeloader.”

“You’re not freeloading. You’re exhausted. Big difference.”

“Still.” She crosses her arms. “I don’t want you to think I can’t—”

“I don’t think that.”

She holds my gaze. I watch the fight play out behind her eyes—the stubbornness, the pride, the refusal to need anyone for anything—and then it drains out of her, replaced by something tired and honest.

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

“You’re welcome. There’s pasta and chicken in the fridge if you want.”

“Starving.”

She pushes off the doorframe and moves toward the fridge. I’m at the counter, drying the last of the dishes, and the kitchen is enormous—designed for someone who entertains, which I don’t—but somehow we’re in each other’s way.

She reaches up toward the cabinet above the fridge for a plate. The shelf is high—built for someone my height, not hers—and she goes up on her tiptoes, fingers barely reaching the edge, shirt riding up.

“Here, let me—” I step behind her and reach over her head, pulling the plate down easily.

And then I’m just . . . there. Behind her. My chest inches from her back, my arm still extended, the plate in my hand, and she hasn’t moved. She’s standing on her toes with her back almost against me and I can feel the warmth of her body and she smells like sleep and vanilla and my shampoo, and neither of us is breathing.

She turns around slowly.

Now we’re face to face—well, face to chest, given the height difference—and she tilts her chin up to look at me. Her eyes are wide and very blue, and I watch her gaze drop to my mouth and come back up, and the air in the kitchen goes completely still.

I’m holding a plate with one hand. The other hand moves on its own, settling against the counter behind her, bracketing her in without quite touching her. Her lips part. I can feel her breath against my collarbone. My pulse is everywhere—my throat, my wrists, my temples.

I lean. Half an inch. Maybe less. A decision my body is making without consulting my brain.

Her phone buzzes on the counter.

Loud, vibrating against the granite, and we both flinch. She drops from her tiptoes. I step back, plate still in hand, and the six inches between us becomes two feet becomes the entire width of the kitchen island.

She grabs her phone. Checks the screen. “Desiree,” she says, and her voice is almost normal. Almost.

She turns away and opens the fridge, and I set the plate down on the counter and grip the edge of it because my hands need something to do that isn’t touching her.

I hear her open a container, put something in the microwave, close the door. Normal sounds. The beep of buttons. The hum of the microwave spinning.

By the time she sits down at the counter with her plate, she’s scrolling her phone and eating like nothing happened.

“This is good, by the way,” she says, fork in one hand, phone in the other.

“Yeah.” That’s it. That’s all I come up with to say.

She finishes dinner. Loads her plate in the dishwasher without being asked. Murmurs good night and disappears down the hall to her room.

Her room. Not the guest room. Not anymore.