If you don't terrify people, what's the point.

By the end of the third week, Brendon knew the routine.

Not that he called it that.

A routine implied intention. Repetition. Some level of agreement between the people participating. This was not that.

This was coffee.

That was all.

Coffee in one of his travel mugs, four sugars and a splash of milk, handed over in the hall sometime between 6:28 and 6:36, depending on whether Biscuit attempted escape before or after you remembered your keys.

In return, you usually had something for him.

A muffin wrapped in parchment.

A scone tucked into a paper bag.

A small container of leftovers from whatever you had made the night before.

Once, a savory hand pie that you had described as “structurally questionable, emotionally sound,” which Brendon had eaten in his office before nine in the morning because it was there and because he had skipped breakfast.

You had found out somehow.

The next morning, the container you handed him had a note taped to the top.

This is lunch. Not breakfast.

Do not make me define meals for you, Dr. Park.

Brendon had read it in the hallway while Biscuit sat on his shoe and looked up at him like a man waiting for visitation. You had watched him read it, one shoulder braced against your doorframe, coffee in hand, eyes bright with barely contained amusement.

“Well?” you had asked.

Brendon had folded the note once. “Controlling.”

You had lifted your mug. “Helpful.”

“Debatable,” Brendon had said.

You had smiled into your coffee. “Eat it after noon.”

He had eaten it at 11:43. That had seemed close enough.

Now, three weeks in, the notes had become part of it too. Not part of a routine.

Just part of the exchange.

Not a transaction. Do not start.

Eat before 3 p.m. That is a medical recommendation from someone with zero medical authority.

Needs pepper? Be honest.

You said cafeteria chicken was “structurally disappointing.” This is structurally sound.

Brendon kept them all.

Temporarily. He told himself.

In the drawer beside his keys. Not because they mattered. That morning, he opened his door at 6:31 with two coffees in hand and found Biscuit already waiting in the hallway.

The kitten sat directly in front of 6C, bell resting against his orange chest, tail curled neatly around his feet. No you. Just Biscuit.

Brendon looked down at him. “No.”

Biscuit looked back.

Brendon shifted both travel mugs into one hand and glanced toward 6B. Your door was open three inches.

From inside, your voice carried into the hall. “Biscuit.”

The kitten did not move.

Your voice came closer. “Biscuit, I swear to god, if you are at his door again, you owe me for emotional damages.”

Brendon looked down at the kitten. Biscuit blinked.

You appeared in the doorway with your bag half-zipped over one shoulder, a container balanced in one hand, and one shoe fully on. The other shoe was in your hand.

You stopped when you saw Brendon. Then you looked down at Biscuit. Then back at Brendon.

Your expression shifted into something caught between apology and resignation. “Good morning.”

Brendon glanced at your shoe. “You forgot something.”

You looked at the shoe in your hand. “I was aware.”

Biscuit meowed.

You pointed the shoe at him. “Not another word from you.”

Brendon held out the coffee. Your attention went to it immediately. It always did. That had become another thing Brendon knew. Your fingers wrapped around the travel mug with both hands when the hallway was cool. Your shoulders lowered by a fraction after the coffee hit your tongue. And if he got it exactly right, if the sugar dissolved fully and the milk softened the coffee without cooling it too much, you closed your eyes for half a second.

Only half. Barely anything.

Brendon had noticed anyway.

You stepped into the hall, still holding your shoe, and took the mug from him.

Your fingers brushed his. Not enough to matter.

It mattered.

“Thank you,” you said, softer than your usual hallway voice.

Brendon nodded once. “You’re late.”

“I know,” you said, setting the coffee carefully on the narrow table beside your door so you could put your shoe on. “Biscuit knocked one of my measuring spoons under the refrigerator, and I made the mistake of deciding I cared.”

“You do care,” Brendon said.

You slid your shoe on and looked up at him. “I care deeply. It was a character flaw.”

Biscuit stood and stretched toward Brendon’s pant leg.

Brendon looked down. “Don’t.”

Biscuit put one paw on his shoe.

You sighed. “Every morning. Every single morning, he sees you and thinks, yes, that is my emotionally unavailable father.”

Brendon’s gaze lifted to yours. Your face changed. Not much. Just enough to tell him you had heard yourself.

Then you cleared your throat and reached for Biscuit. “I mean, alleged father. Unconfirmed.”

Brendon held very still. He had learned, over the past three weeks, that stillness was the safest response to you when you accidentally said something that made his chest tighten.

Biscuit allowed himself to be scooped up with the terrible dignity of a wrongly accused man.

You tucked him against your chest and looked toward 6B. “Back inside.”

Biscuit meowed.

“No,” you told him. “Dr. Park has bones to fix, and you have crimes to reflect on.”

Brendon’s mouth almost moved. You noticed. Of course you noticed.

Your gaze caught on his mouth for one quick second before you looked away and opened your door wider. A smile touched your lips, warm and pleasant.

Brendon noticed. That was new. Or not new.

That was the problem.

Brendon had known you were pretty.

That was not new information.

It had been true in the hedge, with leaves caught in the fabric of your dress and one yellow rubber glove on your hand. It had been true in the hallway with Biscuit tucked against your chest. It had been true in the elevator, when you took your first sip of coffee and looked at him like he had personally improved the concept of morning.

He had known.

The problem was that knowing had become noticing.

And noticing had become difficult to ignore.

He noticed your mouth when you smiled, before you tried not to. He noticed the flour that sometimes dusted your wrist or the side of your hand. He noticed the way your eyes warmed when you said his first name, like it was not a name you were borrowing from him but one you had decided belonged somewhere softer. He noticed your fingers around his travel mug. He noticed that you had started watching his hands.

Not always. Not openly. But enough.

And that was inconvenient.

You stepped into 6B, set Biscuit safely inside, and blocked his immediate attempt to follow you with your foot.

“No visitation,” you said firmly. “You are not emotionally prepared.”

Biscuit meowed.

You pointed at him. “Neither am I, but I have class.”

Brendon looked down at his coffee.

That did not help.

You pulled the door closed, locked it, then turned back to him with your bag on your shoulder and his coffee in your hand. Only then did you remember the container balanced on the little table by the door.

“Oh,” you said, grabbing it. “This is yours.”

Brendon looked at the container. It was one of the square glass ones with the blue lid. He recognized it because he had washed it two nights ago and returned it yesterday morning. Now it was back in your hands, full again, a folded note taped to the top.

A container he had returned. A container you had refilled and given back.

It was absurd. It was also warm.

“You refilled it,” Brendon said.

You handed it to him. “That is one interpretation.”

“It’s the accurate interpretation,” he replied.

“It’s lunch,” you said.

Brendon took the container. “I have food.”

You looked at him. He looked back.

You said, “You have protein bars and access to hospital coffee.”

“I have cafeteria access,” Brendon said.

Your brow furrowed. “You called the cafeteria chicken structurally disappointing.”

“It was,” Brendon said.

You nodded toward the container. “Then consider this structural support.”

Brendon glanced down at the note. You had written in dark ink, your handwriting quick but careful.

Not a transaction. Lunch. Eat before three.

Biscuit says bringing me coffee counts as child support.

Brendon stared at it for one second too long.

You shifted your coffee from one hand to the other. “He was very insistent.”

Brendon looked at the closed door of 6B. “He is a cat.”

“He has emotional leverage,” you said.

Brendon folded the note once and tucked it beneath the container. “He overestimates its value.”

You looked at him over the rim of your coffee. “Does he?”

Brendon’s gaze lifted to yours. You took a sip. Too soon. Your expression tightened for half a second before you smoothed it out. Brendon saw it.

“You burned your tongue,” he said.

You lowered the mug. “No.”

“You did,” he replied.

“I experienced temperature,” you said.

He gave you a look. “You do that every morning.”

Your eyes narrowed. “That sounded like judgment.”

“It was pattern recognition,” Brendon said.

Your mouth curved. Not a full smile. Worse. A soft one, private and pleased, like he had given you something you intended to keep. Brendon looked away first.

The elevator dinged down the hall.

You started walking beside him. “You know, pattern recognition is how Biscuit learned you leave around the same time every morning.”

“Biscuit is not recognizing patterns,” Brendon said.

“He absolutely is,” you replied.

Brendon jerked his head towards your front door. “He is sitting in front of a door.”

“With intent,” you said.

Brendon pressed the elevator button. “Unproven.”

You leaned one shoulder lightly against the wall beside the elevator. “You underestimate him.”

Brendon shook his head once, “I assess him accurately.”

“You assess everyone accurately?” you asked.

Brendon looked at you.

The question should have been harmless.

It was not.

Not with you standing there in the morning light from the hall window, coffee in both hands, looking up at him like you genuinely wanted the answer.

Brendon’s attention caught, briefly, on the curve of your mouth around the edge of the cup.

Inconvenient, he thought.

Then, because that was ridiculous even in his own head, he looked at the elevator numbers.

“No,” he said.

Your expression softened. “No?”

The elevator arrived before he had to decide how much truth to give you.

Brendon stepped inside first and held the door with one hand. “Not everyone.”

You followed him in. The doors closed. For a moment, the elevator was quiet except for the hum of movement and the faint shift of coffee inside your mug.

You stood closer than you usually did. Not by much.

Enough.

Brendon could smell sugar and milk beneath the coffee, something warm from the container in his hand, and the faint citrus of whatever soap you used in your kitchen.

You looked at the container tucked against his side. “You are going to eat that after noon.”

Brendon faced the doors. “It’s labeled.”

“Good,” you said. “I’m building systems.”

“For me?” Brendon asked.

“For you,” you said. “For Biscuit. For myself. It’s a very demanding household.”

Brendon glanced over.

There was something light in your voice, but not quite enough to hide what sat under it.

He had heard it before. Not in the words. In the television murmuring through the wall late at night. In the extra food packed into containers. In the way you talked to Biscuit like he was a roommate with poor judgment instead of a cat who weighed less than a sack of flour.

Brendon looked down at the container in his hand. “Then the household is organized.”

Your smile flickered. Only for a second. But he saw that too.

“I’m trying,” you said.

The elevator reached the lobby before Brendon could decide what to do with the softness in your voice.

The doors opened.

Brendon should have stepped out immediately. Instead, he waited. You adjusted your bag, coffee held close, and gave him a quick smile that did not quite reach the place it usually did.

“Have a good day, Dr. Park,” you said.

It was polite. Warm. A little careful.

He did not know why he disliked the careful part.

“You too,” Brendon said.

You started toward the front entrance. He turned toward the parking garage. Then you glanced back. Just once. Quick. Almost like you had not meant to.

Brendon caught it anyway.

Your gaze dropped briefly to the container in his hand, then lifted to his face.

“After noon,” you called.

Brendon held up the container once in acknowledgment. “Lunch.”

You pointed at him. “That better not be sarcasm.”

“It was clarification,” he replied dryly.

You smiled then. Real this time. Small, but real.

Brendon watched you disappear through the lobby doors and into the morning. He stood there for one extra second, container warm against his palm, coffee cooling in his other hand, the note tucked beneath the lid.

Not a transaction.

He looked down at it.

Then he went to work.

By 1:42 p.m., Brendon had ignored the container twice.

Not intentionally.

A consult had run long. Then ortho had been paged for a possible tibial plateau fracture. Then, a patient had insisted the pain was “probably nothing” while his X-ray disagreed with impressive confidence.

By the time Brendon stepped into the workroom, his coffee was cold, his shoulders were tight, and the container you had handed him that morning was sitting exactly where he had left it.

In the crowded fridge.

Labeled.

Not a transaction. Lunch. Eat before three.

Biscuit says bringing me coffee counts as child support.

Brendon looked at the note for half a second.

Then he pulled the container out and sat down. He pried the lid off and found lemon orzo with roasted vegetables, grilled chicken, herbs, and a small wedge of lemon tucked into one corner.

There was another note beneath the lid.

Brendon paused.

Then he pulled it free.

Structurally sound.

Probably.

Add lemon if you’re going to be difficult.

His mouth almost moved. Almost.

He folded the note once and set it beside the first note.

Then he picked up his fork.

He had taken exactly one bite when Dr. Yolanda Garcia entered the workroom.

Garcia moved like someone who knew exactly where her body was in a crisis.

Even here, away from the trauma bay, there was a precision to her. Not rushed. Not relaxed, either. She carried herself with a kind of contained confidence that Brendon respected because he had seen what it looked like under pressure.

Garcia did not perform calm.

She used it.

Her gaze swept the room once, catching the empty chairs, the half-finished chart on the screen, the consult board, and Brendon sitting with an actual meal in front of him.

Her attention dropped briefly to the folded note beside his container.

Brendon slid the note half under the lid.

“You’re eating before three now,” Garcia said.

Brendon picked up his fork again. “Apparently.”

Garcia stepped closer to the counter and reached for the tablet someone had left charging there. “That’s new.”

“Lunch?” Brendon asked.

“Compliance,” Garcia said.

Brendon looked up.

Garcia’s expression stayed calm. “Interesting.”

The word should not have landed.

It did.

Brendon looked back down at the container. The chicken was sliced neatly. The vegetables had been cut small enough to eat quickly between consults. The lemon wedge was wrapped in a scrap of parchment so it did not make the rest of the container soggy.

Efficient. Thoughtful. Irritatingly considerate.

Garcia paused at the door. Her gaze flicked once more to the container, then to him.

“Good,” Garcia said.

Brendon looked up. “What?”

Garcia’s expression stayed calm. “Compliance.”

She stepped back into the hall before he could answer.

Brendon’s fork stilled.

The workroom went quiet again.

Brendon sat there with the container in front of him, the note half-hidden beneath the lid, and the taste of lemon lingering on his tongue.

He looked down at the note.

Then he folded it carefully and finished his lunch.

Brendon got home at 8:23 p.m. with Garcia’s voice still sitting somewhere behind his ribs.

Compliance. Interesting.

It was not interesting.

It was lunch.

He had eaten lunch before three because there had been food available, because the note had been taped to the lid, and because ignoring a direct instruction written in dark ink by the woman across the hall would have been inefficient.

That was all.

Brendon stepped out of the elevator, work bag on his shoulder, container clean and empty in one hand.

The hallway was quiet.

For three seconds.

Then 6B opened.

You came out fast, bag over one shoulder, phone in one hand, keys in the other. Your light cardigan was half-on, one sleeve caught near your elbow, and you were trying to lock your door while reading something on your screen.

Biscuit’s bell jingled from inside the apartment.

“No,” you said through the narrow gap. “You are not coming. This is not an adventure. This is a consequence.”

Biscuit meowed.

You pulled the door shut before he could argue further, checked the lock, and turned so quickly you almost ran into Brendon.

You stopped short. “Oh.”

Brendon looked at your cardigan. “Problem?”

“No,” you said, then glanced down at your phone. “Yes. Maybe. Time-sensitive domestic inconvenience.”

Brendon’s gaze moved to your phone. “What is it?”

“Cat litter emergency,” you said.

He looked at you.

You closed your eyes for half a second. “That sounded less dramatic in my head.”

Brendon waited.

You opened your eyes and tucked your phone against your chest. “I meant to get it after class, but class ran late, and then I had to remake a sauce because my first one split, and then Biscuit committed a minor act of terrorism, and now I’m almost out of litter.”

Biscuit meowed from behind your door.

You pointed at the door without looking. “Do not editorialize.”

Brendon’s mouth almost moved.

You looked back at your phone. “If I miss the bus, I have to wait forever because the evening schedule is terrible, and I know technically he has enough until morning, but he is very particular now because apparently the hedge was beneath him.”

Brendon shifted the empty container in his hand. “I’ll drive you.”

You looked up. “What?”

“I’ll drive you,” Brendon repeated.

“You just got home,” you said.

“You’ll miss the bus,” he said.

“I can run,” you said.

Brendon’s gaze dropped briefly to your half-zipped bag, your caught cardigan sleeve, and the keys slipping down your finger.

Then he looked back at you. “Not effectively.”

You stared at him.

The elevator dinged behind him, empty doors opening and closing again, while neither of you moved.

“That was rude,” you said.

“It was accurate,” Brendon said.

You looked down at your phone again.

The bus time glowed up at you, unforgiving.

Biscuit meowed from behind the door, louder this time.

You sighed. “I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

Brendon slid his keys from his pocket. “You’re not.”

You looked at him.

He looked back, steady and unreadable, like this was the simplest thing in the world.

Maybe to him, it was.

You tucked your phone into your bag and finally pulled your cardigan sleeve into place. “Okay.”

Brendon nodded once and turned toward the elevator.

You fell into step beside him, then glanced at the container in his hand. “You washed that already?”

“It was empty,” Brendon said.

“That is not an answer.”

“It’s a reason,” he said.

You smiled despite yourself. “Of course it is.”

The elevator arrived, and Brendon held the door while you stepped inside.

It felt different without the warmth of Brendon’s travel mug in your hand.

The absence was strange.

It was just you and Brendon.

And the empty container.

And the lingering awareness that he had offered to drive you somewhere before you had asked.

You glanced over at him. “You know, when I imagined making friends in Pittsburgh, I did not picture panic-buying cat litter with my orthopedic surgeon neighbor.”

Brendon faced the doors. “You imagined something else?”

“I imagined normal things,” you said.

“Such as?”

You thought about it. “Coffee. Maybe a book club. Casual brunch.”

“We have coffee,” Brendon said.

You looked over.

His expression had not changed.

Still dry. Still controlled.

But there was something tucked beneath it now that you had started to recognize as almost amusement.

You had started recognizing too many things about Brendon Park.

That was becoming a problem.

“I have very medically supervised coffee,” you said.

“It’s not supervised,” Brendon said.

“You tell me to eat breakfast every morning,” you replied.

Brendon kept his gaze forward.“You forget breakfast every morning.”

“I remembered today,” you said.

Brendon glanced at you. “You ate half a scone.”

You sighed. “It was a large scone.”

“It was not,” Brendon said.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You are very opinionated for someone voluntarily participating in a cat litter emergency.”

The elevator reached the parking level.

Brendon stepped out first. “Pattern recognition.”

You followed him. “You are abusing that phrase.”

“It applies,” he said.

His car was exactly what you should have expected.

Clean. Practical. Dark.

Nothing flashy, nothing messy, nothing that did not seem to have a purpose. There was a folded hospital fleece in the back seat, a reusable grocery bag tucked neatly behind the passenger seat, and the faint smell of coffee lingering in the air when he opened the passenger door.

You paused.

Brendon looked at you over the top of the door. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said.

His gaze sharpened slightly.

You slid into the passenger seat. “Your car is very you.”

Brendon closed the door, then walked around to the driver’s side. When he got in, he glanced at you while starting the engine. “Functional?”

“Controlled,” you said.

He pulled out of the parking space. “That wasn’t an answer.”

“It was an assessment,” you said.

Brendon looked at the rearview mirror. “Accurate?”

You looked at the clean dashboard, the lack of clutter, the travel mug in the cup holder that had clearly been rinsed at some point during the day, because of course it had.

Then you looked at him.

Broad shoulders beneath his shirt. One hand steady on the wheel. The sharp line of his jaw turned toward the windshield. The dimple in his chin was just visible when he glanced toward the exit.

You had known Brendon was attractive.

That had never been a question.

The man had shoulders that made hallways feel smaller, hands that looked like they could hold the world steady if he decided it needed holding, and a face that seemed designed to ruin your concentration at inconvenient times.

You had noticed.

Obviously.

You were busy, not dead.

But the more time you spent around him, the more the noticing changed shape.

It was not just that he was good-looking.

It was that he was good-looking while remembering your coffee order.

Good-looking while refusing to let Biscuit win arguments.

Good-looking while carrying your empty containers back, washed and dry.

Good-looking while offering you a ride for cat litter like that was a perfectly normal thing to do for the woman across the hall. Which was, frankly, worse.

“Accurate,” you said finally.

Brendon glanced at you.

You looked out the window before he could catch too much of your face. “But in a flattering way.”

His mouth almost moved. “Controlled is flattering?”

“It is when paired with good coffee and competent driving,” you said.

Brendon stopped at a red light. “Low bar.”

“Do not insult my standards while escorting me to purchase premium clumping litter,” you said.

Brendon’s gaze stayed on the road, but something softened near his eyes. “Premium?”

“He has been through a lot,” you said.

“He was in a hedge,” Brendon said.

“He was abandoned in a hedge,” you said. “Now he has standards.”

“Fast adjustment,” Brendon said.

You smiled out the window. “That’s what I said.”

The pet store was quiet when you arrived, bright and overly cheerful in the way stores became at night when there were more employees than customers.

You headed for the cat aisle with purpose.

Brendon walked beside you, hands in his pockets, looking deeply out of place among towers of feather toys, pastel collars, and bags of food promising indoor vitality.

You stopped at the litter section and scanned the rows for the brand you liked.

Brendon looked at the shelves. “Which one?”

You pointed to a large bag on the lower shelf.

Brendon bent and lifted it before you could reach for it.

The bag was heavy enough that you had already braced yourself.

Brendon picked it up as if it had personally offended him by pretending to be heavy.

That was unnecessary. Wildly unnecessary.

You looked away from his forearm and pretended to be very interested in the price tag.

“I can carry it,” you said.

“I know,” Brendon said.

He did not hand it over.

You looked back at him. “That was not a question.”

“Correct,” Brendon said.

Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “You are so annoying.”

Brendon adjusted the bag against his side. “You accepted help.”

“I accepted help during a litter-based crisis,” you said.

“You were going to miss the bus,” Brendon said.

“That is circumstantial duress,” you said.

Brendon’s mouth almost curved.

There. That small shift again. Not a smile. Almost.

You had learned to count those as smiles.

Which was dangerous, probably.

Because lately, you had started trying to earn them.

At checkout, Brendon stayed beside you with the litter balanced easily in both hands.

The cashier scanned it and gave you the total.

You reached for your wallet and paid before Brendon could even look like he was considering it, then turned to him with a warning expression. “Do not.”

Brendon looked at you. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Your entire posture said something,” you said.

“My posture,” Brendon said.

“It had intentions,” you said. The cashier glanced between you and wisely said nothing.

Brendon carried the litter out to the car.

You followed beside him, receipt in hand, trying very hard not to watch the way his shoulders moved beneath his shirt.

You failed.

Repeatedly.

In the parking lot, he set the litter in the trunk, then shut it with one smooth motion.

“You really didn’t have to do this,” you said.

Brendon rested one hand briefly on the trunk before turning back to you. “You would have missed the bus.”

“That’s not the same thing,” you said.

His gaze held yours across the back of the car. “It is to me,” Brendon said.

The words were simple. No flourish. No smile.

No attempt to make them softer than they were.

That was what made them land.

Your throat tightened a little, and you hated that, because this was cat litter. This was objectively one of the least romantic items a person could purchase under fluorescent lighting.

And still.

Still.

You looked down at the receipt. “That is a dangerously efficient worldview.”

“It works,” Brendon said.

“For orthopedic surgeons and emotionally complicated men, maybe,” you said.

Brendon’s eyes sharpened. “Emotionally complicated?”

You looked up. There it was. The edge.

You had stepped closer to it without fully meaning to.

His gaze stayed steady on yours, and for one second, the parking lot felt too quiet around you.

Then you lifted the receipt slightly. “I’m deflecting with humor because you were nice to me, and I don’t know how to feel about that.”

Brendon went still.

You looked down quickly, your face warming. “That came out more honest than intended.”

He did not answer right away.

When he did, his voice was lower.

“You don’t have to do that,” Brendon said.

You looked back at him. “Do what?”

“Deflect,” he said.

The space between you changed. Not dramatically. Not enough that anyone walking past would notice.

But you did.

Brendon seemed to notice too, because his jaw tightened once before he stepped back and reached for the driver’s door.

You exhaled quietly.

Then you got into the car.

The drive back was not awkward.

That almost made it worse.

The silence sat differently now, fuller than before, broken only by the soft hum of the road and the occasional click of Brendon’s turn signal. You watched the streetlights pass over his profile and tried not to think about how steady his hands had looked on the litter container.

You tried not to think about the way he had said, “It is to me.”

You tried not to think about how the sentence had sounded like care without ever using the word.

When you reached the apartment building, Brendon carried the litter from the trunk.

“I can carry it from here,” you said in the parking garage.

Brendon looked at you. “I already brought it this far,” he said.

You frowned. “That is not logic.”

“It’s the completion of a task,” Brendon said.

You stared at him. Then you sighed. “Of course it is.”

He carried the litter upstairs.

By the time you reached the sixth floor, Biscuit was already yelling behind your door.

You heard him before you even got your keys out.

You looked at Brendon. “He knows.”

Brendon looked at the door. “He heard us.”

“He sensed a tribute,” you said.

Brendon glanced at the bag of litter in his hands. “It’s litter.”

“To you,” you said, unlocking your door. “To him, it’s ceremony.”

Biscuit tried to appear in the opening immediately.

You blocked him with your foot. “Absolutely not. No hallway. You have received your tribute.”

Brendon set the litter just inside your door, close enough that you could drag it the rest of the way in without lifting it.

You looked down at it. Then up at him. “Thank you,” you said.

The words came out softer than you meant them to.

Brendon’s gaze held yours.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then he said, “Not a transaction.”

Your chest warmed. “No?” you asked.

“No,” Brendon said.

Biscuit meowed from behind your foot.

You looked down at him, grateful for somewhere to put the feeling. “Do not look smug. This is not diplomacy.”

Brendon’s mouth almost moved. “Tribute, apparently.”

You laughed, and there it was again.

That flicker in his expression. Small. Gone quickly.

But real enough to make your fingers tighten around your keys.

“Goodnight, Brendon,” you said.

His eyes stayed on yours for half a second longer than they needed to.

“Goodnight,” Brendon said.

Then he crossed the hall to 6C.

You stepped inside, blocking Biscuit’s final attempt at escape, and shut the door behind you.

Biscuit immediately sniffed the litter bag.

You looked down at him. “Don’t start.”

Biscuit meowed.

You leaned back against your closed door and pressed a hand to your warm face.

“I know,” you whispered.

Across the hall, Brendon unlocked his apartment, stepped inside, and closed the door. For a moment, he stood in the quiet, unmoving. The drive had taken less than thirty minutes. The errand had been cat litter.

It should not have felt like anything.

Not a transaction, he had said.

For once, he was not sure whether he had been reminding you or himself.

Two nights later, Brendon came home late enough that the hallway had gone quiet.

The elevator opened on six with a soft mechanical sigh, and he stepped out with his work bag over one shoulder, his scrub top rumpled from a shift that had run long enough to make every light in the building feel too bright.

He had every intention of going straight into 6C. Shower. Water. Silence. Possibly the journal article he had pretended he was going to finish three nights in a row.

Then he heard your voice through the door of 6B. “No, Biscuit, I am not saying I like him.”

Brendon stopped. His key was already in his hand.

He should have kept walking.

He did not.

Biscuit meowed from inside your apartment.

“I am saying I might like him,” you said, your voice muffled but clear enough. “That is different.”

Brendon’s hand tightened once around his keys.

Biscuit’s bell jingled.

“Do not judge me,” you said. “You have been trying to move into his apartment for three weeks.”

Brendon looked at the closed door of 6B.

There were several appropriate things to do. Walk into his apartment. Make noise so you knew he was there. Forget he had heard anything. Instead, he stood in the hallway, very still, while his brain attempted to treat the situation like an emergency with no clear protocol.

Biscuit made another sound.

“Yes, obviously he’s attractive,” you said. “That is not the issue.”

Brendon closed his eyes. Briefly. That did not help.

You continued, devastatingly unaware. “The issue is that he brings coffee like a man who understands commitment, and he looks at me like he’s diagnosing me with something fatal.”

Brendon opened his eyes.

He should have found that ridiculous.

He did find it ridiculous.

That did not stop the words from landing somewhere low in his chest.

A sharp thud sounded from inside your apartment.

Then a much louder meow.

You gasped. “Biscuit.”

Another jingle.

Then your voice rose, scandalized and horrified. “Biscuit, that is property damage!”

That, at least, gave Brendon something useful to do.

He knocked once.

The apartment went silent.

A second later, something scraped against the floor.

Then your door opened.

You stood there with a wooden spoon in one hand and a dish towel thrown over your shoulder. Your expression was composed in a way that was almost convincing, except for the slight lift of your eyebrows and the fact that Biscuit was meowing dramatically behind you.

Brendon looked at you. You looked at him. For one long second, neither of you said anything.

Then Brendon said, “Property damage?”

You glanced back into the apartment. “That depends on how generous you are with definitions.”

He looked past you.

The warm light of your apartment spilled into the hallway. Something sweet and sharp simmered in the kitchen, rich enough to reach him from the doorway. On the counter, a saucepan sat over low heat. A bottle of balsamic vinegar stood open nearby. A cabinet door above the counter hung crooked, its top hinge pulled loose from the frame.

Biscuit sat on the floor beneath it. Perfectly still.

Completely unrepentant.

Brendon looked back at you.

You lifted the wooden spoon slightly. “He decided the open cabinet door was a climbing structure.”

Brendon looked at the cabinet again. “Was it?”

“Briefly,” you said.

Biscuit meowed.

You pointed the spoon toward the kitchen without looking away from Brendon. “You are not the victim.”

Brendon’s mouth almost moved. Almost.

You noticed. “Can it be fixed?” you asked.

Brendon stepped closer to the doorway. “Probably.”

“Probably,” you repeated.

“It’s a hinge,” Brendon said.

You opened the door wider. “Right. A hinge. I’ll try to keep my panic proportionate.”

He stepped inside.

Your apartment was warmer than the hallway, heavy with summer air and whatever was reducing on the stove. Tomato vines sat in a bowl near the sink. A cutting board held minced herbs, a lemon, and a knife resting safely away from the edge. Your culinary notebook lay open beside the stove, one page marked with dark streaks where you had clearly touched it with sticky fingers.

Brendon set his work bag beside the door.

You watched him move toward the sink. “What are you doing?” you asked.

“Washing my hands,” Brendon said.

“For the cabinet?”

“For your kitchen,” he said.

That should not have done anything to you. It did. Not because it was dramatic. Because it wasn’t. Because it was practical and considerate and exactly the kind of detail he would think mattered without making a performance of it.

You turned back to the stove and stirred the glaze once. “There’s a screwdriver in the drawer by the fridge.”

Brendon washed his hands, dried them with the towel you handed him, and moved to the drawer.

“Flathead or Phillips?” he asked.

“Both,” you said.

He looked over.

You lifted one shoulder. “I own tools.”

“Good,” Brendon said.

There was no surprise in it. No teasing. Just approval, simple and unembellished.

You looked back at the saucepan before your expression could soften too much.

Brendon selected the screwdriver he needed and stepped toward the cabinet.

The space was small. It had been small before. It became much smaller when he stood in it. He was still in his work clothes, sleeves short, nothing layered over the broad line of his shoulders or the strength in his forearms as he reached up to test the cabinet door. His hands were steady on the loose hinge, careful despite the size of them, and you found yourself watching the way his fingers adjusted the angle before he tightened anything.

You had known Brendon was attractive.

That had never been a question.

You had noticed the breadth of his shoulders the first time he stepped out of 6C. You noticed his hands as he passed you the coffee. You had noticed the sharp line of his jaw, the dimple in his chin, the way his attention could settle on a thing so completely it made everything else feel irrelevant.

You had noticed. Of course you had.

But noticing him in passing was different from standing in your kitchen while he held your cabinet door steady with one hand and tightened the hinge with the other.

This was closer. Quieter. Harder to dismiss.

“Behind you,” Brendon said.

You shifted half a step to let him reach the hinge more easily. He did not crowd you. He still filled the space.

“You know,” you said, because the silence had started to feel too aware of itself, “you do not have to surgically repair my apartment.”

“It’s a cabinet,” Brendon said.

“That sounded dangerously close to ‘I’m a surgeon,’” you replied.

“I didn’t say it,” he said.

“You thought it,” you said.

Brendon tightened the screw. “It was available.”

A laugh slipped out of you.

His mouth almost moved again. Small. Controlled. Gone fast.

You looked back at the glaze before you could make too much of it.

Brendon tested the cabinet door once. It shifted. He tightened another screw, slower this time, adjusting the angle with the kind of precision that made you understand exactly why people trusted him with broken things.

You should have been watching the glaze on the stove.

You were watching his hands.

Brendon noticed. His movement paused for half a second, the screwdriver still in his grip.

You lifted your eyes to his.

Neither of you looked away immediately.

Then you turned back to the stove and stirred the glaze once. “You’re very precise.”

Brendon’s gaze stayed on you. “I’m a surgeon.”

“There it is,” you said with a smile.

His mouth almost moved. Almost.

Biscuit chose that moment to stretch up toward the lower cabinet again.

You pointed the spoon at him. “Do not immediately disrespect his craftsmanship.”

Biscuit continued to move, one tiny paw stretching towards the cabinet.

Brendon looked down at the kitten. “No.”

Biscuit sat.

You stared. “That’s offensive.”

Brendon tightened the final screw. “He heard me.”

“He hears me,” you said.

Brendon tested the cabinet door again. It opened cleanly. Closed cleanly. Stayed where it belonged.

“He selectively complies,” Brendon said.

You looked at Biscuit, who was now licking one paw like he had not committed a small felony against your security deposit. “That is infuriatingly accurate.”

Brendon stepped back. “Try it.”

You set the spoon down and moved to the cabinet. The door opened without sagging. You closed it. Opened it again. Closed it again.

“Well,” you said softly. “Look at that.”

“Fixed,” Brendon said.

You looked at him. Not at the cabinet. At him.

“Thank you,” you said.

The words came out quieter than you meant them to. Brendon’s gaze held yours for a moment, and the apartment seemed to shrink again around the two of you.

Then the glaze bubbled behind you. You turned back to the stove. “Right. Sauce.”

Brendon moved to the sink to wash his hands again. You noticed that too. You told yourself it was normal to notice. He was in your kitchen. Using your sink. Drying his hands on your towel.

Normal things.

Normal things that felt less normal every time he did them.

You picked up the spoon and stirred the glaze. “I need an opinion.”

Brendon turned from the sink. “On the cabinet?”

“No,” you said. “On this.”

He stepped closer. Too close. Not actually too close. Just close enough that your body registered him before your mind could make the appropriate argument for why it didn’t matter.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Honey balsamic glaze,” you said. “For class tomorrow. I’m trying to balance it before I decide whether to remake the entire batch.”

Brendon looked at the saucepan. “You think you’ll have to remake it?”

“Depends on your opinion,” you said.

He looked at you. “That’s a lot of authority.”

“You seem comfortable with authority,” you said.

His gaze stayed on yours for half a beat. Then he said, “Usually.”

You dipped the spoon into the glaze and lifted it carefully, watching the dark, glossy line coat the back.

Brendon held out his hand.

You did not give it to him.

Instead, you raised the spoon toward his mouth.

His hand stilled.

Slowly, his gaze lifted from the spoon to your face.

The room shifted.

You felt it immediately.

Brendon did not smile. He did not move closer. He did not say anything clever.

He simply looked at you. Focused. Still.

His eyes darker than they had been a second ago.

“Direct,” Brendon said.

His voice was lower.

You held his gaze. “You said you liked direct.”

For one long second, he did not move.

Then Brendon leaned down and tasted the glaze from the spoon.

He did not take it from your hand.

His eyes stayed on yours.

The whole thing lasted less than two seconds.

It felt obscene.

Not because he did anything obscene. Because he did not. Because he was careful. Because he was controlled. Because his mouth closed around the spoon with the same restrained precision he brought to everything else, and somehow that made it worse.

You watched his mouth.

His gaze dropped to yours.

Then lifted.

The air between you pulled tight.

You lowered the spoon slowly. “Well?” you asked.

Your voice was steady. Your pulse was not.

Brendon swallowed. You saw it. His jaw shifted.

“Needs acid,” he said.

You looked at him. “Lemon?”

His gaze dropped to your mouth again. Once. Briefly.

“Maybe,” he said.

You held the spoon at your side. “Maybe?”

His eyes came back to yours. “I’m thinking,” Brendon said.

He was not thinking about lemon. You knew that. He knew you knew that.

Behind you, the glaze bubbled again, thicker now. You turned toward it and reached for the knob to lower the heat.

Brendon moved at the same time.

His hand came to the counter beside you, bracing there as he reached past you with his other hand to turn the burner down before the glaze could catch.

He did not trap you. He did not touch you.

Still, he was close enough that you felt the heat of him along your side.

Your breath caught.

Brendon’s hand stilled on the knob. The burner clicked lower. Neither of you moved.

“Careful,” Brendon said.

“With the glaze?” you asked.

“Yes,” he said.

The word sounded like a lie.

You turned your head.

He was right there.

Close enough that you could see the tiredness at the corners of his eyes. Close enough to see the tension in his jaw, the restraint in the line of his mouth, the way his attention had dropped again, not to the stove, not to the counter. To you.

“Brendon,” you said.

His name came out quiet. Too quiet to be casual.

His eyes lifted to yours.

For one suspended second, everything in the apartment held still.

The saucepan.

The summer air.

Biscuit under the table.

Your hand near the stove.

His hand braced against the counter.

Then Brendon leaned closer.

Barely.

Enough.

Your lips parted.

He stopped.

His hand left the counter.

The space he put between you felt deliberate.

Necessary.

Almost cruel for how quickly the air cooled.

“The glaze will burn,” Brendon said.

You looked at him. Then at the stove. It would not burn. Not yet.

You both knew that.

Still, you turned back to the saucepan and stirred. “Right.”

The word landed softly. Not hurt. Not quite. But careful.

Brendon picked up the screwdriver from the counter and put it back in the drawer where he had found it.

Biscuit’s bell jingled under the table. Too late. The interruption arrived after the thing it might have saved you from.

You glanced down and saw Biscuit nosing at Brendon’s shoe.

“Biscuit,” you said, grateful for the excuse to sound normal, “do not harass the man who repaired your crime scene.”

Brendon looked down at the kitten. “He lacks remorse.”

“He lacks rent money and remorse,” you said.

Brendon’s mouth almost moved. Almost. But his eyes were still dark when he looked back at you. Still too focused. Still full of something he had not let himself finish.

You held the spoon a little tighter.

“Thank you for fixing the cabinet,” you said.

Brendon nodded once. “Don’t leave it open.”

A surprised laugh escaped you, softer this time. “Excellent advice.”

“He should learn,” Brendon said.

“He will not,” you said.

Brendon picked up his work bag. “No.”

You followed him to the door, suddenly aware that you did not want him to leave and also that it might be safer if he did. At the threshold, Brendon paused. You stood behind him, one hand on the door, the scent of honey and balsamic still warm in the air.

For a second, you thought he might turn back. He did. Only slightly.

His gaze found yours.

Not your spoon. Not the cabinet.

You.

“Goodnight,” Brendon said.

You swallowed. “Goodnight, Brendon.”

His jaw shifted once. Then he stepped into the hallway.

You closed the door before Biscuit could follow. For a long moment, you stood there with your hand still on the lock, listening to the sound of Brendon’s door opening across the hall. Then closing.

Biscuit’s bell jingled behind you. You turned. He sat in the middle of the kitchen, looking up at you like he had been personally responsible for every event of the last fifteen minutes.

You looked back toward the door. Your pulse had still not settled.

“I know,” you whispered.

Two days passed. Not dramatically. Nothing stopped. Brendon still brought coffee in the morning. You still returned his travel mug with something wrapped in parchment or packed into one of your glass containers. Biscuit still attempted, with admirable consistency, to breach 6C before seven. The routine continued.

That should have made things easier. It did not. Now, when Brendon handed you coffee, your fingers brushed his, and both of you noticed. When you lifted the mug to your mouth, his gaze dropped for half a second too long before returning to your eyes. When he said, “Four sugars. Splash of milk,” his voice sounded the same as always.

Dry. Controlled. Practical.

Except now you knew what it sounded like when it lowered.

You knew what his eyes looked like when they went dark. You knew what it felt like to stand close enough to him in your kitchen that the air changed. And Brendon knew you knew. That was the problem.

Or one of them.

By Friday evening, you had convinced yourself that the best way to handle the situation was to behave normally. Normal was good. Normal was safe. Normal was stirring a pan of summer vegetables in your kitchen while Biscuit hunted a wool ball under the table, and the city outside your window turned gold with the last of the light.

Normal was not thinking about Brendon Park’s mouth around a spoon.

You were doing an excellent job. Mostly.

A knock sounded at your door. Biscuit abandoned the wool ball immediately and darted toward the entry.

“No,” you said, catching him with your foot before he could wedge himself into position. “We are not embarrassing ourselves tonight.”

Biscuit meowed.

You pointed the wooden spoon at him. “Speak for yourself.”

You set the spoon down, wiped your hands on a towel, and opened the door.

Brendon stood in the hallway with one of your containers in his hand. Clean. Dry. Of course.

He was still in his work clothes, scrub top rumpled from the day, work bag slung over one shoulder. He looked tired, but not in the hollowed-out way he sometimes did after longer shifts. More contained than exhausted. More careful. His gaze moved over your face. Then past you, briefly, to the kitchen. Something simmered behind you. You saw him notice. You also saw the exact moment he tried not to.

“Container,” Brendon said.

You looked down at it. “So it is.”

His mouth almost moved. “Yours.”

“You sure?” you asked.

Brendon looked at you.

You reached out and took the container. “Thank you.”

His fingers brushed yours around the glass. Barely. Still, the air between you tightened. You did not pull back too quickly. Neither did he. Biscuit’s bell jingled near your ankle, and the spell loosened by a fraction.

Brendon looked down. “No.”

Biscuit meowed.

You looked at the kitten. “He hasn’t done anything yet.”

“He was preparing,” Brendon said.

You glanced back up at him. “You can diagnose pre-crime now?”

“With him,” Brendon said, “yes.”

A laugh slipped out of you, low and warm. Brendon’s attention caught on it. Not visibly enough for anyone else to notice. But you noticed. You had gotten good at that. You looked down at the container in your hand, then toward the kitchen. The responsible thing would have been to thank him, close the door, finish dinner, and let the strange charge between you settle into something manageable.

The responsible thing had been disappointing you a lot lately.

“I’m making dinner,” you said.

Brendon’s gaze lifted from Biscuit to you.

You held his eyes. “Stay.”

The hallway went quiet. Biscuit’s bell jingled once. Brendon did not answer right away. Then his expression shifted, barely.

“Direct,” he said.

“You like direct,” you said.

His jaw moved once. He looked at you like he was deciding whether to step away from the edge or over it. Then Brendon shifted his work bag higher on his shoulder. “I should wash my hands.”

Your pulse gave one sharp, inconvenient kick.

You stepped back from the doorway. “You know where the sink is.”

Brendon stepped inside.

You closed the door before Biscuit could make any terrible choices.

The apartment felt smaller immediately.

It always did when he came in, but it was worse now because neither of you had the kindness of pretending not to know what the room could become. The kitchen held the scent of garlic, summer squash, tomatoes, and the faint sweetness of the honey balsamic glaze cooling in a small bowl near the stove.

Brendon set his work bag by the door. Biscuit circled it like an investigator.

You pointed at him. “No evidence tampering.”

Brendon glanced down as he crossed to the sink. “He has priors.”

“He has allegations,” you said.

“He damaged a cabinet,” Brendon replied.

“You fixed it,” you said.

Brendon turned on the water. “That doesn’t erase the crime.”

You leaned against the counter while he washed his hands. “You’re very committed to justice for a hinge.”

“It was preventable,” Brendon said.

You watched him reach for the towel. His hands were large and steady, water catching briefly along his knuckles before he dried them. You had noticed his hands before. You had spent an unreasonable amount of time pretending not to. But it was getting harder to pretend when he was in your kitchen, using your towel, looking like every quiet, capable thing about him had been designed specifically to make your life more difficult.

Brendon looked up.

You did not look away quickly enough.

His gaze sharpened. Not smug. Not teasing.

Just aware.

That was worse.

You turned back toward the stove. “I hope you like vegetables.”

Brendon stepped closer to the counter. “What are you making?”

“Pasta with roasted summer vegetables, basil, and a fresh batch of the glaze from the other night,” you said, lifting the spoon from the pan. “Adjusted with lemon, since someone gave an extremely restrained critique.”

Brendon’s gaze moved to the bowl of glaze. “Someone was right.”

“You were maybe right,” you said.

“Maybe,” Brendon repeated.

The word landed between you, too familiar now.

Your hand stilled around the spoon.

Brendon’s eyes stayed on yours.

For half a second, the kitchen became the other night again. The spoon. His mouth. The way he had looked at you. The way he had stepped close enough to almost make a mistake and then chosen not to.

You turned back to the cutting board, where a handful of herbs waited beside a small knife. “Sit if you want. Or stand there and judge my knife skills. I know that’s probably hard for you to resist.”

Brendon stayed where he was. “Your knife skills are fine.”

You glanced over your shoulder. “Fine?”

“Safe,” he said.

“Deeply romantic feedback,” you said.

His eyes lifted to yours. The room changed again. Not as sharply as the spoon.

Softer.

More dangerous.

“I didn’t say romantic,” Brendon said.

“No,” you said, holding his gaze for a beat. “You didn’t.”

Biscuit’s bell jingled under the table.

You looked away first, reaching for the herbs. “Anyway.”

Brendon did not move.

You could feel him watching as you gathered the basil. Not your hands exactly. Not the knife. You. The attention was quiet and steady, and it made your skin feel too warm.

You chopped once. Twice.

Then Biscuit shot out from under the table with the wool ball in his mouth.

Your eyes flicked down on instinct.

The knife slipped.

You hissed softly and pulled your hand back.

Brendon moved immediately. “You okay?”

You looked at your finger. A thin line of red welled near the side of your fingertip. “It’s fine.”

“Let me see,” Brendon said.

You inhaled, “It’s small.”

“Then it won’t take long,” he said.

You looked up at him. He was already beside you, one hand extended, his expression focused in a way that made arguing feel pointless.

You sighed. “Before you ask, yes, I own Band-Aids.”

“Good,” Brendon said. “Hand.”

Something about the single word should not have affected you.

It did.

You gave him your hand.

Brendon turned on the sink with his free hand and guided your finger beneath the water. His touch was gentle. Careful. Nothing like the clipped command in his voice. He supported your hand with one palm while the water ran cool over the cut, his thumb resting near the inside of your wrist.

Your breath settled somewhere shallow.

He noticed.

His gaze did not lift from your hand. “Too much pressure?”

“No,” you said.

“Pain?” he asked.

You shook your head. “Not really.”

He nodded once. “Where’s the first aid kit?”

“Bathroom cabinet,” you said. “Top shelf.”

Brendon turned off the water and wrapped a paper towel lightly around your finger. “Stay here.”

You looked at him. “It’s my apartment.”

His gaze flicked to yours. “Stay here anyway.”

You swallowed the smile that tried to rise. “Okay.”

Brendon left the kitchen for the bathroom with the efficiency of a man who had already mapped the apartment in his head. Biscuit attempted to follow him.

You looked down. “Do not assist with medical care.”

Biscuit ignored you.

From the bathroom, Brendon said, “No.”

Biscuit stopped in the hallway.

You stared. “That is so rude.”

Brendon returned with the small kit in hand. “He listened.”

“He selectively complies with authority figures who are not responsible for feeding him,” you said.

Brendon opened the kit on the counter.  “He followed instructions.”

Your eyes narrowed. “He caused the injury.”

Brendon glanced down at Biscuit. “Indirectly.”

You pointed at the cat with your uninjured hand. “Do not defend him.”

Brendon’s mouth almost moved. Almost.

Then his attention returned to your finger, and the humor slipped back into focus. He unwrapped the paper towel, checked the cut, and reached for an antiseptic wipe.

“This may sting,” Brendon said.

You looked at him. “That sounded suspiciously like bedside manner.”

“It was a warning,” Brendon replied.

You sighed. “So medical.”

His eyes lifted briefly. “Do you want me to count down?”

“No,” you said.

He cleaned the cut. You inhaled through your nose.

Brendon’s thumb steadied your hand. “Okay?”

You nodded. “Okay.”

He wrapped the small bandage around your finger with a care that made your throat tighten. It was absurd. It was a Band-Aid.

But his hands looked too large around yours, and yet he handled you like something that mattered. His fingers were warm, his touch steady, his focus complete.

You had noticed his hands before. You had not understood them yet.

“There,” Brendon said, smoothing the edge of the bandage with his thumb.

You looked down at your finger. “Very professional.”

“It’s a Band-Aid,” he said.

“You still made it feel like a procedure,” you said.

His mouth almost moved. “Force of habit.”

You should have stepped back. He should have let go. Neither of you did.

His hand was still around yours, his thumb resting lightly near the inside of your wrist, and the kitchen had gone too quiet around you. The faucet was off. The knife was safely on the cutting board. Biscuit’s bell had gone silent somewhere near the table.

“You’re very calm,” you said.

“It’s a small cut,” Brendon said.

“That’s not what I meant,” you murmured.

His gaze lifted to yours.

The room held still.

Your hand was still in his.

His thumb was still at your wrist.

Then Brendon’s attention moved over your face.

Not quickly enough to be casual.

You knew, suddenly, that there was something on your skin.

Flour, probably. Or a bit of starch from the pasta dough you had handled earlier. Something small. Something harmless.

“What?” you asked.

Brendon lifted his free hand.

You went still.

His fingers brushed your cheek, careful and warm, just beneath your eye.

“Flour,” he said.

The word was low. Almost an excuse.

Your eyes stayed on his. “Oh.”

His thumb moved once over the spot. The flour was gone. His hand stayed.

Only for a second. Only long enough that both of you knew he had no reason to still be touching you.

Your lips parted.

Brendon’s gaze dropped.

You whispered, “Brendon.”

His thumb stilled against your cheek.

For one suspended second, he leaned closer. Not much. Barely. Enough.

Your fingers curled lightly against his.

He stopped.

His hand fell away from your face.

A heartbeat later, his other hand released yours.

The loss of contact felt too abrupt. Too cold.

“I should go,” Brendon said.

Your chest tightened.

You nodded once. “Right.”

His jaw shifted like there was something else he wanted to say.

He did not say it.

Instead, his gaze dropped to your bandaged finger. “Keep it clean.”

It should have sounded like medical advice. It did.

Mostly.

You pulled your hand carefully against your chest. “I will.”

Brendon stepped back. The kitchen felt bigger immediately. He closed the first aid kit and set it neatly beside the sink.

You watched the movement because it was easier than watching his face. Biscuit’s bell jingled near the table.  Brendon picked up his work bag from beside the door. You followed him to the entry. Neither of you spoke. At the threshold, he paused with one hand on the door.

For one second, you thought he might turn around.

He did. His gaze found yours.

It was all still there.

The want.

 The restraint.

The thing he would not let happen.

“Goodnight,” Brendon said.

You held the door open, your bandaged finger tucked against your palm.

“Goodnight, Dr. Park,” you said.

The name landed between you with quiet, careful distance.

Brendon went still.

Not visibly enough for most people to catch. You caught it.

His expression shifted. Barely. Enough.

Then he nodded once. “Goodnight.”

He stepped into the hallway.

You closed the door before Biscuit could follow him.

For a long moment, you stood there with your hand on the lock, listening to the sound of his door opening across the hall. Then closing. The quiet that followed did not feel soft.

 Biscuit brushed against your ankle. You looked down at him.

“Don’t,” you whispered.

Biscuit meowed.

You swallowed and looked at the bandage wrapped neatly around your finger. “I know.”

Across the hall, Brendon stood in 6C with his back against the closed door. His apartment was clean. Quiet. Exactly as he had left it.

He could still feel your wrist beneath his thumb.

He could still hear the way you had said his name.

Brendon closed his eyes. Leaving had been the responsible thing. He was almost sure of it.

 For the first time since the hedge, the quiet between your apartments did not feel gentle.

It felt charged.