I stood, running a hand over the back of my neck as I stepped away from the bed, my body already adjusting, already mapping the space again without conscious thought. The couch came into view first.
Then her.
Bea was curled into the corner like she had run out of options and settled for the only one left, one arm tucked beneath her head, the other pulled close to her chest. The blanket barely covered her, twisted around her legs in a way that made it obvious she had not slept well. The cat was with her, pressed against the back of her knees, completely at ease.
I paused there longer than I needed to.
Her breathing was shallow, uneven enough to confirm what the position already suggested. The couch was too small. Too firm. Not built for anything resembling rest.
I glanced back toward the bed, then returned my attention to her. She had said she would take the couch. I had told her not to. She had done it anyway.
I exhaled once, more habit than reaction, and turned toward the kitchen. The space efficient in the way small things had to be, everything within reach without effort. I opened the cabinets without hesitation, scanning quickly, then moved to the refrigerator.
Eggs. Bread. Fruit. Easy.
I set what I needed on the counter and moved through it without noise I didn’t need to make, muscle memory carrying most of it. Pan. Heat. Controlled. Precise. The quiet of the apartment shifted as the burner warmed, replacing stillness with something steady and deliberate.
Behind me, fabric shifted. A small sound followed—half movement, half breath. The cat moved first, landing lightly on the floor before padding closer, stopping just short of the kitchen as if drawing a line I was not meant to cross.
I flipped the eggs and then turned.
Bea was sitting up, barely, one hand braced against the couch as she tried to orient herself. Her hair was a mess, one side matted from the way she had slept, the other falling loose around her face. Her eyes were still unfocused, working to catch up.
She looked at me. Then at the kitchen. Then back at me again. It took a second for recognition to settle in. When it did, her posture shifted, subtle but immediate, like she had just remembered everything at once.
“You’re up,” she croaked, voice steeped in sleep.
I glanced at her briefly before returning my attention to the pan. “Morning, sweet cheeks. Want some eggs before our debut?”
Bea’s dark eyes narrowed slightly as she pushed herself fully upright, rolling her shoulder once like she was shaking off the stiffness from the night. The blanket slipped from her legs, pooling at her feet, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“What did you just call me?” she growled.
I threw my hands up in the air, immediate surrender. “Noted. Do not tease Bea pre-coffee, apparently.”
The way she didn’t miss a beat was a little too intriguing. “I don’t drink coffee,” she bit. “And we don’t do cute. This is a business arrangement.”
“Doesn’t change the original question. Do you want some eggs?” I let my stare settle into hers. I could see the tension building. There were buttons being pressed in all the wrong ways. The reaction of oil and water trying to mix.
“I didn’t ask you to make me breakfast.”
“No,” I agreed. “You didn’t.”
“Then why?—”
“Because you’ll be useless in an hour if you don’t eat,” I cut in, setting the plate down on the counter in front of her.
Her mouth opened. Closed. Then she exhaled, long and controlled, like she was deciding which battle to pick first. “Right,” she snapped. “Because clearly you’re an expert on what I need.”
“I am,” I declared evenly, “when what you need is obvious.”
Her eyes flashed back to mine. There it was again. That edge.
Not insecurity. Not panic.
Pushback.
She straightened a fraction, pulling herself up into it. “Let’s get something very clear right now,” she warned, voice losing the last of its sleep-softened edges. “You don’t get to walk in here and decide how this works.”