“It suits you,” she says, meaning it. “Really brings out your eyes.”

He scoffs. “Thanks. I’ve almost made my peace with it.”

The electric kettle beeps. Joy heads back to the counter, placing a tea bag into a mug and pouring the water so it can steep. She sets the timer on the microwave and presses start.

“A timer? Really?”

“Time is relative. Trusting my brain’s version of five minutes will result in cold tea.” She opens the condiment cabinet. “Sugar? Honey? Non-dairy creamer?”

“I’ll do it,” he says, getting up. And then he’s standing behind her.

His skin is radiating heat again—he must be one of those scalding-hot-water-shower people because he feels even warmer than last night—and he smells nice. Aloe? Roses? She doesn’t want to sniff him, but he’s wearing something way too subtle to be cologne or aftershave. She asks, “Do you use lotion?”

“Yeah?”

That’s what it is. Must be. “Good.”

Joy tries to not seem shocked. She’s long since accepted that not everyone takes moisturizing as seriously as Black people. If her skin has even the tiniest speck of ash between her fingers, her mom rocket launches hand cream at her. She learned the hard way what happens if she waits too long after taking a shower to put lotion on. Her skin literally itches as if she’s having an allergic reaction, and when it gets too dry it looks like she’s been kicking flour.

“Okay.” He says with a lift of his infamous eyebrows. A look that means this girl says weird things all the time, let it go. A go with the flow kind of resigned eyebrow raise. He caught on quicker than most people and didn’t hate her for it. He bargained with her instead.

Sixty-five percent.

“Why are you staring at me?” he asks, with a sideways glance.

Because she likes watching him.

Joy feels herself softening toward him. She can’t stop slouching closer, leaning into the space between them, ready to curl around him like an overly friendly cat. She realizes she really likes watching him. A man of few words but infinite interesting reactions. And she wants to catch them all.

Continuing to gaze up at him, she asks, “Does it bother you?”

“If I say yes, will you stop?”

“Mmhmm.” She nods.

He’s quiet as he pulls the tea bag out of the mug, gives it a squeeze, and tosses it in the trash. “Then no. It doesn’t.” He picks up his drink—no additions—and turns away. “I’m gonna go for a walk.”