The coffee was still warm when Samantha finally stopped talking.
"Sorry," she said. "I talk when I'm tired. I talk more when I'm tired and somebody is actually listening, which is apparently dangerous."
"I've noticed. It isn't annoying. It's informative."
She'd been sitting at his kitchen counter for nearly an hour, both hands wrapped around the ceramic mug he'd given her, detailing the disaster her apartment had become. The power company had promised to send someone "within a day or two" — corporate shorthand, according to Samantha, for whenever they got around to it.
Corbin listened. He was good at listening.
Usually he listened because information had value. Every word revealed something — habits, priorities, fears. What a person avoided saying was often more useful than what they admitted.
With Samantha, he listened for a different reason. He simply liked the sound of her voice.
"I called them again yesterday," she said, staring into her mug. "They said there's an issue with the account, which is a very polite, scripted way of saying I owe them money before they'll discuss anything else."
"You do owe them money."
She gave him a look over the rim. "I didn't say that. You didn't have to hear it, either — fine. Yes, I owe them money."
"How much?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Are you about to efficiency-consult my electric bill? Because what I need right now is sympathy, not a spreadsheet."
"I was calculating how bad it is. You paused, by the way. That was you deciding whether to be honest."
"That sounds dangerously close to consulting. Fine — how much? Enough. 'Enough' is the only number I can afford to say out loud."
"That isn't a number."
"It is when you don't have it."
She looked tired. Not broken — worn down, the way people look when too many small problems pile up at once.
"How long since you slept? And define it however you like — what I'm asking is when you were last unconscious."
"Tuesday, if we're being strict. If we're being generous, I've had several very committed naps that lasted about nine seconds each."
Yet she was still making jokes. He respected that. Most people broke quieter than that. She broke louder.
"When did they say someone would be out?"
"Sometime this week, which is vague even for them. Thursday to never, depending on which representative feels like lying to me. Welcome to my life." She smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes.
"Generous of them."
"I thought so."
Corbin looked toward the window. Morning light was creeping through the blinds.
"You're staring at me. And don't say you were thinking — that's your favorite excuse, and it's exactly what a person with a lot of excuses would say." She pointed at him with her mug for emphasis.
"I don't make excuses."
The corner of his mouth twitched.
She caught it. "Almost a smile."
"I smile."
"Twice in eight months, Corbin."
"That seems excessive."
She laughed — a light sound that filled the quiet kitchen.
Corbin wasn't accustomed to laughter in his apartment. He wasn't sure he wanted to get used to it. He didn't mind hearing it.
She finished her coffee and set the mug down with a soft clink. "I should probably head out. I've been sitting here bothering you for an hour, and you've been too polite to say so."
"You're not bothering me."
It came too quickly. Too flatly.
He caught his slip instantly. So did she.
"You sure?" she asked softly.
"Yes."
She hesitated, eyes drifting toward the window. "I just — I really don't want to go back over there right now. It's stupid. It's cold, and it's dark, and there's nothing in the fridge except mustard. I hate mustard, so even that isn't a plan."
"You don't like mustard?"
"I hate mustard."
"Then that's a tactical error."
She offered a faint smile. "A major one."
He looked at her for several seconds. "You can use my couch. Stay here until your power comes back on."
She blinked. "Corbin, that's a big offer. We barely know each other — you can't just lend me your couch like it's an umbrella. Are you serious?"
"It's a couch. And yes."
"Why?"
He considered. Because she shouldn't sit alone in the dark. Because he had the space. Because the thought of her freezing across the hall bothered him more than it should.
He chose the simplest answer. "It's practical."
She stared, then amusement returned to her face. "Practical. Right. Is that consulting language for 'I felt sorry for you, but I'd rather die than say it'?"
"It's what I'm calling it."
"Catchy. You really are an efficiency consultant."
"I told you I was."
She let out a quiet laugh and looked around the apartment. "This place is going to feel very different with me in it."
"You won't be living here."
"Sleeping here."
"Temporarily."
"Right." She stood and walked into the living room.
He followed at a distance.
She stopped in front of the gray sofa — large, clean, devoid of personal touches, a neatly folded throw blanket at one end. She picked it up, testing its weight. "This is the most depressing couch I've ever seen. It looks personally offended by the idea of comfort."
"It serves its purpose."
"Of course it does." She dropped the blanket back. "What if I snore?"
"You do. Once, about four months ago — through the wall. You were loud."
The words left his mouth before he could filter them.
She froze and turned slowly. "You've heard me snore? You've been listening to me sleep for four months?"
"I was awake," he said calmly. "That was the extent of it."
"That doesn't make it better! And I do not snore. I resent this entire investigation."
"You do snore. I can't prove it, because I don't record my neighbors."
"You should. Evidence. Otherwise it's just slander with a straight face."
"I'll consider it. Until then, we'll consider the matter unresolved."
She stared at him, then burst out laughing.
She walked back toward the kitchen island. "Okay. If I'm actually staying here, I need ground rules. Obviously. First: the blanket stays wherever I leave it on the couch, and you don't get to complain or fold it when I'm not looking."
"Fine."
"Second: you don't reorganize my things. And before you say it — yes, you reorganize everything, especially items you decide lack structure. My things have structure. It's organized chaos, and I know where everything is."
"That's still chaos. But fine."
"Third: I get one full shelf in your refrigerator. The top one. The butter can learn to share."
"Top," he said. "The butter can share."
"And fourth…" The playfulness faded slightly. She met his gaze. "If I stay here, you have to actually talk to me. No disappearing into the background and pretending you're part of the furniture."
That one was harder. "You talk enough for both of us," he said dryly.
She grinned. "Nice try. Is that a deal?"
He looked at the couch, then back at her. "Fine. I'll talk."
"That was suspiciously easy."
"Don't get used to it."
"Too late."
She walked to the front door and stopped, hand on the handle.
"You'll be back?"
"In two hours, with bags. Two tote bags — that's everything I own, so don't start picturing a moving truck. Try not to kill me in my sleep while I'm gone."
He stared at her, unblinking.
"Your face didn't move. That's what worries me. It rarely moves, I know — I heard myself as soon as I said it. Too dark?"
"A little."
"Just checking." She slipped out, and the door clicked shut behind her.
"Lock your door," he said through the wood. "Both locks."
"I will. And you're paranoid."
"Prepared."
"Same thing."
"No."
He stood in the center of his apartment. Nothing had changed. The furniture remained squared to the walls. The glass surfaces were spotless. The locks were set.
And yet the room felt different.
He walked into the kitchen and reached for her empty coffee mug. He looked at it for a moment. Normally, he washed every dish immediately after use. It was a rule.
He left the mug in the sink. He wasn't sure why. Only that he didn't want to move it yet.
Two hours later, she returned carrying two tote bags.
He opened the door before her knuckles hit the wood a second time.
She paused. "You knew I was standing there?"
"Eleven seconds. I count everything."
"Even me?"
"Especially you."
"That's creepy."
"You're loud."
"The living room for the bags," he said. "Bedroom's off-limits."
"Noted." She set the bags beside the couch. One held folded clothes. The other held toiletries, a phone charger, and three paperbacks.
He eyed the books. "What are they?"
"No, I don't read — I haul heavy literature around for the aesthetic. Kidding. Two novels and a book about houseplants. I don't own plants, before you ask. It's aspirational. Someday I'll be a person who can keep something alive."
She began unpacking. A navy sweater draped over the arm of his gray couch.
"That's cashmere," she said.
"It's draped."
"It's home now. And you're doing it again — observing. It's a habit, I know." She picked up the sweater and tossed it across his couch cushions. He stared at the wrinkled fabric. "Your move, efficiency consultant."
He looked at the sweater, then back at her. He left it where it lay.
Her smile widened. "Good choice. Call it compromise if you need the word — the sweater stays. And yes, I'm probably going to ruin your apartment."
"Definitely."
"We'll see. No — I'm going to humanize it."
A moment later he heard her humming softly as she opened the refrigerator.
He almost told her the kitchen was hers now. He didn't. Some things, once said, stayed said.
He listened, and let the apartment remain exactly as it was.