Cats meow and circle my legs, but I shift through them to a plush, red couch. It’s not full-size; I doubt anything full-size can exist here, but it’s large enough to seem comfortable for her. With careful precision, I lay her down. She looks surprised not to be writhing in pain. I go slow, releasing my grip underneath her, allowing myself to linger close.

Then, I realize I’m hovering, too close and too much touching, too many thoughts I shouldn’t be having. “Um, I like your freckles.”

She laughs. “That’s better than the sheep flipping line.”

I stand up straight, letting go. “Not a line. Truth.”

“Thanks, that’s sweet. Next thing I know, you’ll be calling me Carrots.”

“Ah, no. I won’t do that.”

“Never seen Anne of Green Gables?” she asks.

“Hmm, it sounds like something I’d watch, but I must’ve missed it between John Wick and Die Hard marathons.”

Her laughter makes me smile. Wait, am I… bantering? Secondary to that phenomenon, am I enjoying it? It’s been so long, I can’t remember the last time I willingly engaged in pleasant conversation with someone outside my family. More surprising is how easily it’s happening with her.

Her laughs end with an uncomfortable wince. “You’re funnier than I thought you’d be.”

“No, I’m not. You bring it out of me.”

“Then, good. It looks nice on you.” Her eyes dance with mine. “But I can’t handle any more giggles. They hurt, you know?”

“Well, if you aren’t laughing, then…” I tease.

Her cats jump onto the couch beside her, and she laughs at the purring welcome party.

“So, learn anything else from your Dad?” she asks, mid-pets.

“Oh, one last thing. It takes as long as it takes.”

She repeats my words, as if memorizing them.

“Yep, healing, walking, getting back to normal, everything,” I say. “So, no rushing it.”

“Got it. How is he? Your dad?”

My eyes narrow, taken aback by the question. “Good, thanks. As bull-headed as ever.”

“So, it runs in the family, then?”

“Absolutely.”

Her side smirk stretches up her cheek, puffing it in an obnoxiously friendly, adorable way. I could elaborate on Dad’s health, and she’d soak up the tedious information regardless of how boring it’d be to her. So, I don’t wait for more questions but leave to bring in her things.

I don’t ask permission to take her suitcase into her bedroom. I set it atop an old chest at the foot of her bed so she doesn’t have to pick it up, and even open it for her, putting her things at arm’s reach. I glance around and spot things I wouldn’t expect in a twenty-five-year-old’s bedroom, not that I’ve been in many.