Page 41 of My Enemy Biker

I pull the laptop back, start revising the language. She watches me type, occasionally suggesting better phrasing, and I take most of her suggestions because they are better.

"You're getting emotional about security protocols," I say after she makes her third edit suggestion in two minutes.

"I'm being thorough. That's not emotional."

"You just used three exclamation points in internal club documentation."

"For emphasis!"

"That's four."

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Narrows her eyes at me. "Are you seriously—"

"Must be the hormones," I say, face completely neutral.

She goes very still. Stares at me. I can see the exact moment she processes what I just said, the flash of realization followed immediately by outrage.

"You did not just—" she starts, then catches the corner of my mouth twitching. "Oh, you absolute—"

I'm already laughing. Can't help it. The look on her face is worth whatever she's about to do to me.

"You're the worst," she says, but she's laughing too. "I can't believe you— I actually fell for that."

"You did."

"I was about to throw this laptop at you."

"I know."

"You planned that."

"Saw the opportunity. Took it."

She shakes her head, still smiling. "You're lucky I love you."

"I know that too."

She reaches across the table and takes my hand, threads our fingers together. "We're good at this."

"At what?"

"This. Being us." She squeezes my hand. "We should probably keep doing it."

"Planning on stopping?"

"No." Her smile goes softer. "Definitely not."

I save the document. Close the laptop.

The evening light comes through the kitchen window, catches in her hair, makes the whole kitchen feel warm. She's drinking tea instead of coffee, wearing my shirt like it belongs to her now, and we just spent fifteen minutes arguing about dishwasher efficiency like it mattered.

Like we matter.

"I love you," I say.

"I know." She squeezes my hand again. "Even though you load the dishwasher wrong."

"Especially because I load the dishwasher wrong."