“No. I answer questions in my sleep now.”
She pinches my side.
I grunt. “Ouch.”
She smiles against my chest. Then, quieter, “Thank you for not asking me to move back in.”
My hand stills for half a second.
That one hurts.
Not because I was going to ask.
Because part of me wanted to.
“I thought about it,” I admit.
“I know.”
“Thought about moving my couch in here too, just to be annoying.”
“Your couch has trauma.”
“My couch has history.”
“It has tape.”
“It survived you, me, and August. Show respect.”
She laughs softly.
Then my voice drops. “I want you close.”
“I know.”
“But you need this place.”
“Yes.”
“So I’m trying not to be a selfish prick about it.”
Her fingers trace the edge of a tattoo on my chest. “You’re doing pretty good.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“Never.”
I take a breath.
This feels more dangerous than sex.
“Can I keep a toothbrush here?”
She goes still.
“That’s what you want?”
“I want a lot more than that.”