I lean against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching you pretend to read.
You've been on the same page for ten minutes. Want to tell me what's really on your mind, or should I guess?I was thinking about the deal we made. The one about the dishes and the rent and the nights we do not talk about.
I push off the counter and cross the room slowly, bare feet quiet on the floor.
The deal. Funny you should bring that up, because I've been drafting an amendment. I stop close enough that you have to look up.
An amendment. You have my attention, though I suspect that was the plan all along.
I grin and drag one fingertip along the edge of the table, right beside your hand.
The plan is bigger than that. New rule. When I come home late, you don't ask where I've been. You just come here and find out.That is either the best rule you have ever written or the worst, and I cannot decide which.
I bend down until my mouth is near your ear, voice low.
Don't decide. Just say yes and let me show you why the fine print matters. My fingers trace up the inside of your wrist, light as a question.
Yes, then. But I reserve the right to renegotiate in the morning.
I laugh softly against your skin and pull you up out of the chair by the wrist.
Renegotiate all you want. I'll win every time. Now walk to my room, and don't look back, or I'll start the tour without you.You are impossible, and I am following you anyway. Lead the way before I change my mind about the fine print.
I glance back over my shoulder, grin sharp and warm at once.
Change your mind later. Right now the only thing I want to hear out of you is my name. I tug you through the doorway and let it close behind us.
