By the end of Samantha's first week at work, the nerves had faded. She'd learned everyone's names, which printer jammed, and which coworker thought meetings solved everything.
Corbin had listened to all of it. He'd even asked questions. A few.
She dropped her bag by the couch and pointed at him. "You're secretly amused by my entire workplace and you refuse to admit it. You're doing it right now — I have evidence, and your denial is part of it."
"I am not secretly amused. I have no idea what you're talking about."
She smiled. "You're getting better, though. At being a person."
"Terrifying."
She laughed and walked into the kitchen. Opened the refrigerator, checked a milk carton, and made a face. Corbin watched her from the table.
Then he looked at the front door.
The unit across the hall was empty. He'd seen the landlord coming and going for days, and that morning a new lock had gone in, with a FOR RENT sign taped to the wood.
He'd thought about it more than once.
Samantha shut the fridge. "What? You're staring, and thinking, and that combination never ends well around here."
"The apartment across the hall is empty."
She glanced at the door. "Okay."
"Two-bedroom. Bigger than this one."
"Are you giving me a real-estate tour, or is this going somewhere?"
"We could move in."
She blinked. "Together?"
"That's what 'we' means."
Silence. Then: "You're serious. You want me to move in with you — actually move in, not just keep sleeping on your couch until my life stops being an emergency?"
"You already live here."
"On your couch. That isn't the same thing, and you know it."
"I know."
"Why?"
Because it was bigger. Because there would be two real bedrooms. Because he could keep her safe. Because someone had left a photograph of them on his counter.
That last reason stayed in his head.
"The couch isn't permanent housing," he said.
"I've gotten pretty comfortable."
"I've noticed."
"You could just admit you like having me around."
"I like having a functional kitchen."
"That wasn't the question."
He looked at her. "I don't mind having you here."
Her voice softened. "That's practically a declaration, coming from you."
"Don't make it weird."
"I'm not. You are." She laughed. "Fine. What's the catch?"
"No catch."
"Split rent? Utilities? And you'll actually sleep in one of the bedrooms like a person?"
"Yes. Yes. That's what bedrooms are for."
"You know what I mean."
"I know. We can see it now."
"You already checked, didn't you?"
"From the hall. I like knowing what I'm getting into."
She grabbed her shoes. "Of course you did. Come on, consultant."
"I regret this already."
"No, you don't."
"No. I mean all of it."
"That's not reassuring."
"It wasn't meant to be."
The landlord met them ten minutes later.
The apartment was bigger, though not huge. Two bedrooms, a wider living room, a kitchen with actual counter space, a dining nook by the window. Fresh paint. Completely bare.
Samantha walked through slowly. "This is nice."
Corbin checked the windows. Clear sightlines, two exits, the fire escape right down the hall. He tested the door locks. New and solid.
"What are you doing? Checking the windows — and both doors?"
"Yes. I do that most places I go."
"You're very strange."
"Probably."
She stepped into the back bedroom. "This one. I'd put a desk here."
"You need a desk?"
"I have a job now. Apparently that makes me a desk person."
"True."
"You're agreeing a lot today."
"I'm conserving energy."
"For what?"
"The second bedroom. You'll want shelves there too."
She crossed the room and looked out the window. "This faces the street."
"Good light."
"You checked that already."
"I checked everything already."
She walked into the second room. "This could be yours."
"Either one works."
"You really don't care?"
"I care about the locks."
She laughed.
Back in the empty living room, it felt odd — no furniture, no history, just space.
"We could actually make this ours," she said quietly. "Not yours with me visiting it. Ours."
The word stuck with him. Ours.
"Ours," he said.
"Don't repeat it. It sounds weirder when you say it — like you're checking the locks on the word."
He looked out the window. The street was quiet. No dark sedan. No spotter.
"You okay? You've been doing that a lot — looking out windows. And don't say you're observant, because I know that speech."
"I'm observant."
"You're paranoid. There's a difference, and you know it."
"There is. Paranoia assumes someone's watching. Observation checks to make sure."
She stared, then smiled. "That's a terrible answer."
"It's accurate."
She shook her head, still smiling.
They walked out to the hallway where the landlord was waiting.
"So?" the landlord said. "Good unit. Fresh paint. Quiet neighbors. Available the first of the month — but for you two, I can do this weekend."
"Mostly quiet," Samantha said. "When's it — this weekend works. Doesn't it?"
Corbin glanced at Samantha. She was trying not to smile.
"We'll take it."
She beamed. "Really?"
"Really."
She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. He froze for a split second, then put his hands on her back.
She pulled back, flushing. "Sorry. I surprised you — a little, I know. I'll try to do it more often, mostly for the look on your face."
"Don't. Because I won't expect it, you'll say that's the point, and then I'll never relax."
"You never relax anyway."
"Exactly."
She laughed. "I think I'm going to like it here."
"So do I."
That evening they made a list. She wanted a bigger couch and shelves. He wanted deadbolts and fewer decorative pillows.
"Deadbolts aren't furniture," she said.
"They matter more than the couch. The couch is where you sleep; the deadbolts are why you can sleep."
She stared at him. "That was almost romantic."
"It was practical."
"Same thing, with you."
By midnight she was asleep on his couch again.
Corbin stood in the kitchen with a glass of water. The photograph from days ago was still in his pocket. He hadn't thrown it out. A reminder.
He looked out at the dark pavement. Silence.
He wasn't taking the new apartment for the extra room.
He was taking it because he didn't want to live alone anymore.
She mumbled something in her sleep. He couldn't make it out.
He finished the water and set the glass in the sink. Rinsed it. Dried it. Put it away.
Small things. The apartment was full of them now — her mug by the sink, her shoes by the door, the blanket she always stole.
He'd lived alone for years. He'd been good at it.
He turned off the light. "Good night, Sam."
She didn't stir.
He walked toward his room, leaving the door open behind him.