She raises an eyebrow, skeptical. “Oh, yeah? Like what?”

I lean against the counter, arms crossed. “I mean, every night I’m there while you’re puking your guts out, so I know you make this weird little groan when you’re about to throw up.”

Her mouth drops open. “Excuse me?”

“And I know you hum ‘Here Comes the Sun’ under your breath when you think no one’s listening.”

She turns a shade darker. “That is a lie.”

“It is not,” I say, enjoying this way too much. “You did it last night between dry heaves. ‘Sun, sun, sun⁠—’”

“Oh my God.” She groans, burying her face in her hands. “This is humiliating.”

I keep going. “I also know you do that little head tilt thing when you’re trying to figure something out. And you roll your eyes exactly three times in a row when you think I’m being annoying.”

“I do not.”

“Oh, but you do so, even when you like to deny it.” I hold up three fingers. “One. Two. Three.”

Her eyes roll dramatically. Once. Twice. Three times.

I smirk. “See?”

She glares at me. “I walked right into that.”

“Yeah, you did.”

She exhales, shaking her head, but there’s something different in her expression now. Lighter. Easier. Nothing like the woman I met last week at The Honey Drop—the one who flinched at shadows and looked ready to bolt the second anyone got too close.

And fuck if I don’t like that.

“So, while you tidy up around here, I have a few things to take care of in the building,” I say, glancing at the mountain of boxes I’ll have to break down later.

She crosses her arms. “Fine, but just so you know, I’m not thrilled about this whole you’re living in my apartment now situation.”

I salute her. “Duly noted. And I’ll make sure to bring all your stuff from upstairs.”

She mutters something under her breath, probably about me being impossible, but I don’t press. Instead, I grab my jacket and head for the door.

The cameras Sanford had installed need to be recalibrated. The exits need to be checked. Reinforced. I need to make sure this place is a goddamn fortress before Winston’s people even get close.

But the truth?

I’m not just securing the place for her.

I’m making sure she has a reason to stay.

Confession time? I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing anymore.

Blythe is changing things. Getting under my skin. Sliding into my space in ways I didn’t expect, didn’t plan for. I should stop it. Should remind myself that she’s temporary, a complication that will be someone else’s responsibility soon.

But then I think about the weekend.

How easy it was to be around her.