I didn't ask for two

Episode 2

POV: Kim

I had a plan.

The plan involved the sheets — knotted at intervals, load-bearing capacity unclear but probably fine — the window, which was locked but locks were essentially suggestions if you approached them with the right attitude, and a nail file, which was a criminally underrated multi-purpose tool.

The plan had been in development since approximately 3 a.m., when I'd accepted that sleep was not going to be a thing that happened, and had moved through three distinct phases: reconnaissance, materials acquisition, and execution.

I was currently in execution.

It was going fine.

* * *

He knocked twice.

Didn't wait.

The door opened, and I had approximately one second to register this before I concluded that the best available option was to stay exactly where I was and pretend I wasn't doing what I was obviously doing.

I was doing it at the window. With the knotted sheets draped over my shoulder. And the nail file jammed into the window latch.

There was no version of this that looked like something else.

"Huh," Jake said.

I turned around. He was standing in the doorway with a mug of coffee, taking in the scene with the expression of a man whose morning had just become considerably more interesting than he'd planned for. He smelled like he'd already had his — rich and dark and slightly unfair, given that I hadn't had mine yet.

"I was—" I started.

"You were," he agreed.

He set the mug on the dresser. Took three steps across the room — unhurried, like a man who had nowhere else to be and found this particular destination more than satisfactory.

I should have moved. Stepped sideways. Done something spatially intelligent. Instead I stood exactly where I was, which was in front of the window, which meant that when Jake stopped moving I was between him and the glass.

He put both hands on the window frame.

One on each side of me.

* * *

He wasn't touching me.

Technically. Legally. By every measurable definition, there was air between his body and mine. Approximately two centimeters of air. Three, maybe, if I was being generous with the measurement and less generous with my dignity.

His chest was a centimeter behind my shoulder. His arm a centimeter from my ear. He was warm — not warm the way rooms are warm, warm the way things are warm that generate their own heat. Standing next to him was like standing next to a radiator that had recently made a series of questionable life decisions and had no regrets about any of them.

THIS IS A BOUNDARY VIOLATION, Panic said. I HAVE DEFINITIONS. I HAVE A CITED SOURCE LIST—

He's not touching us, Voice of Reason said. She sounded slightly strained.

Adventurer said nothing. She was busy.

"Second floor, Kimmie."

His voice was low. Not quiet — low, in the specific register that travels through the air differently than regular conversation. It arrived somewhere behind my sternum before my ears finished processing it.

"The sheets were creative," he continued, in the same easy tone, like we were discussing this over breakfast and not while he was bracketing me against a window with his entire body. "I'll give you that. The nail file was a bold choice."

"The nail file," I said, with considerable dignity, "is a multi-purpose tool."

"Mm." He wasn't moving. Neither was I. "Here's the thing about second-floor windows, Kimmie."

"Don't call me—"

"They're still second-floor windows when the knot slips."

I said nothing.

"Good adult girls," he said, still in that low, unhurried register, "don't tie their sheets into escape ropes."

His breath was warm against the side of my neck. Not touching. Just — present. Existing in the space my neck was also occupying.

"Next time—"

I stopped breathing. My pulse hammered against my throat, right where his breath was hovering, and I hated my body for leaning into it by a fraction of a millimeter.

"—I'm going to have to do something about that."

* * *

WHAT DOES THAT MEAN, Panic demanded. WHAT DOES "SOMETHING ABOUT THAT" MEAN. I NEED SPECIFICS—

Adventurer had a very specific idea about what it meant and I told her firmly that we were not going there.

The Femme Fatale didn't say anything.

She smiled. I felt it.

* * *

He pushed off the window frame.

The air came back — all of it, all at once, suddenly cold in all the places he'd been warm — and I became aware that I was gripping the nail file hard enough that it had left an impression in my palm.

"I brought you coffee, Kimmie." He picked up the mug from the dresser and placed it on the nightstand with the careful precision of a man returning something to its correct location. Calm. Entirely unbothered. "Drink it before it gets cold."

He walked to the door.

It closed behind him.

* * *

I sat down on the edge of the bed.

This was a deliberate choice. I was sitting because I had decided to sit, not because my legs had reached an independent structural assessment and arrived at conclusions I disagreed with.

WE NEED TO REASSESS, Panic said. THE SITUATION HAS DEVELOPED.

The situation, Voice of Reason said carefully, has been developing since approximately the moment we opened that door last night.

I picked up the coffee. It was good — properly made, the right temperature, the kind that required either excellent equipment or someone who paid attention.

I took a sip, and the heat of it did nothing to chase away the phantom warmth of his chest at my back.

I thought about that for longer than was probably healthy.

* * *

The bathroom had a mirror.

I stood in front of it and considered my reflection with the detachment of a scientist observing a mildly concerning experiment: Kim Parker, twenty-one, courier, currently in possession of good coffee she hadn't asked for, in a room she hadn't chosen, because of an envelope she still hadn't delivered.

I touched the side of my neck.

Where he'd been. Where his breath had been.

The skin there was warm. Not imaginary-warm. Actually warm, the way skin is warm when something real has happened to it.

My reflection looked back at me with the expression of someone who had a number of questions about my recent decision-making and was not optimistic about the answers.

I turned around.

The nightstand: the mug, the lamp, the nail file I'd dropped in my moment of peak dignity.

The envelope was gone.