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“You made several. There was pie. It was binding.”

She shoved my shoulder. I let her go, mostly because the pillow crease was distracting me and if I kissed it, Earl was liable to come through the door and offer commentary for the next forty years.

Priya found her jeans. I found mine. By the time I’d dragged them on, she was buttoned, barefoot, and pushing her hair behind her ear with one hand while the other reached for the phone on the shelf.

I caught the phone first.

“Cash.”

“Shoes.”

“I can put on shoes and check my email.”

Another engine climbed the drive.

Priya went still.

“That’s three.”

“Good counting.”

“Give me my phone.”

I put it in my back pocket.

Her gaze followed it. “You understand I could take it.”

“I understand you’re thinking through the leverage required.”

“I am.”

“Boots, trouble.”

She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled them on with short, efficient movements. I watched her lace the wrong boot tighter, notice it, undo it, and start again.

Tired.

Still tired, no matter how straight her back was.

I handed her a glass of water.

She looked at it.

“Before coffee?”

“Before county crisis.”

“We don’t know there’s a crisis.”

“Then you can drink at your leisure.”

She took the glass and emptied half of it. Her eyes stayed on mine over the rim, irritated and warm underneath. I could live inside that look.

A truck door slammed outside.

Then Earl’s voice carried across the yard.

“Calloway! Where d’you want these panels?”