I throw in my darks, settle on the cracked plastic chair withThe Name of the Wind. But I can't focus. I keep touching my lips like a stupid person in a romantic movie, feeling the ghost of Silas's mouth on mine. The overlook. The city lights. The way he wrapped his jacket around both of us and I fit against his chest like I was designed to go there.
My phone buzzes. I turn it back on.
Not Tyler this time. Silas.
How's the head this morning?
Clear. Told you I don't drink.
Good. Reading?
Always. Laundry room today. Very glamorous.
I'm sure you make it look good.
My face heats. He's flirting. Through text. The man who communicates primarily in book recommendations and strategic grunts is flirting with me.
Kvothe is being insufferable at university.
He peaks at insufferable around chapter 40. Then circles back to almost likeable.
Almost?
He's Kvothe. Almost is the best he gets.
The washer buzzes. I switch everything to the dryer, start my whites. Three shirts, two pairs of jeans, a week of underwear and socks, one hoodie that's getting threadbare. My entire wardrobe fits in one load.
Another text:Still on for tonight?
My pulse kicks. Tonight. The date. Dinner at the Italian place on Pine.
Yeah. Still on.
Good. Pick you up at six?
I can meet you
Dev.
Right. Okay. Six.
Wear whatever you want. I'm wearing whatever Knox doesn't veto, which probably means a button-down.
Knox vets your outfits?
Knox vets everything. It's an alpha thing. Or a control thing. Possibly both.
I'm smiling at my phone in a basement laundry room that smells like industrial detergent and someone's forgotten gym socks, and I don't care. I have a date tonight with a man who reads my favorite books and kisses like he means it and brought me vending machine coffee every morning this week.
The laundry takes two hours total. I fold everything precisely, carry it upstairs, put it away. Check my three shirts. The blue one is the nicest, Tyler was right about that, but I wore it last night. The gray henley is clean. It's fine. It's a shirt. Silas won't care what I'm wearing.
Silas won't care what I'm wearing because Silas doesn't care about shirts. Silas cares about books and quiet and the sound I made when he kissed me, which I'm not thinking about in the shelter hallway at 10 AM.
I'm thinking about it.
* * *
The library is my holding pattern until noon. I read in my usual spot but nothing sticks. Kvothe's adventures at the University blur past because my brain keeps looping back to last night. Themotorcycle. My arms around him, the vibration of the engine through both of us. The overlook.