Page 34 of Redline Baby

"It's the same thing as my bedtime routines," he says. "It's not about the coloring. It's about somebody in the room who isn't expecting anything from you except exactly what you're already doing."

"What about dealbreakers?" I ask. "Things you specifically don't like."

"I'm not big on constant noise for its own sake. I like things loud when they're supposed to be loud, quiet when they're supposed to be quiet."

He says it lightly, no aim behind it, and I feel it land somewhere close to home anyway, gentle instead of pointed.

"You?"

"I like being told exactly what to do. Specifically. Not vague."

I reach for another chip, mostly for something to do with my hands.

"I do better with a clear instruction. Sit here. Wear this. I don't do great with open-ended stuff."

"Noted," he says, and that makes my stomach do something warm.

"You're gonna use that against me one day, aren't you?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"You do. You've got that face. The one where you're already planning something."

I point a chip at him, accusing, delighted.

"I contain multitudes," he says, like he did that day, perfectly serious.

I laugh so hard a chip nearly goes down the wrong pipe, and he reaches over and thumps my back twice, competent, unbothered, already moving on before I've even finished coughing.

We sit there a while longer, not saying much, the shop's security light humming overhead and the night gone properly cold around us.

It's easy.

The kind of easy that doesn't need filling with noise.

I find myself leaning into his side without deciding to, my shoulder against his arm, and he shifts just slightly to make room for it, like he'd been leaving the space open the whole time in case I wanted it.

"I should probably head home," I say eventually, not moving.

"Probably."

Neither of us gets up.

"Five more minutes," I say.

"Take ten." He settles his arm loosely around me. "I'm not in a hurry to send you anywhere."

I stay closer to twenty, actually, chips long gone, my head tipped against his shoulder and his arm settled loosely around me.

Somewhere in that stretch of comfortable quiet, I stop keeping track of exactly how much I like this.

Because counting it feels like tempting it to end.

And for once, I don't want to brace for the ending before it even comes.

Chapter 11. Kit

My manager calls me in at eleven that morning, which never means anything good, and it takes him about ninety seconds to confirm it.