Chapter 4
Ainsley
I haven't slept.
Not one minute.
I've been lying in my bed for the past four hours, staring at the ceiling, hyper-aware of every sound coming from the other side of the wall.
The creak of Troy's bedframe when he shifted.
The soft thud of his feet hitting the floor.
The muffled groan of the pipes when he turned on the shower at six-fifteen.
Six-fifteen.
Who showers at six-fifteen in the morning? Former military construction workers, apparently. Former military construction workers who are now living in my house, sleeping ten feet away from me, sharing my bathroom and my kitchen and my air.
I roll over and punch my pillow. It doesn't help.
My brain won't shut up. It keeps replaying yesterday on a loop—Troy filling my doorway, Troy's fingers brushing mine, Troy saying, "I'm good at following orders" in that low, rough voice that made my entire nervous system short-circuit.
I groan into the pillow.
This is fine. This is totally fine. It's just first-night jitters. New roommate energy. By tonight I'll be used to him, and I'll sleep like a normal human being who doesn't lie awake obsessing over a man she's known for less than twenty-four hours.
The shower turns off.
I freeze, listening. Footsteps—heavy but controlled—move from the bathroom back to his room. A drawer opens. Closes. More footsteps, this time heading toward the kitchen.
I check my phone. Seven o'clock.
There's no way I'm falling asleep now.
"Screw it," I mutter, throwing back the covers.
I stumble out of bed, glimpsing myself in the mirror over my dresser. I look like death. Hair in a ratty topknot, dark circles under my eyes, wearing an oversized T-shirt that says "Rosé All Day" and sleep shorts that are... shorter than I remember.
Whatever. It's seven in the morning, and I got home at two. He's lucky I'm wearing pants at all.
I pad down the hallway, barefoot and bleary-eyed, following the smell of coffee like a zombie tracking brains.
Troy is in the kitchen.
Of course he is.
He's sitting at the small table by the window, with a plate of eggs and toast in front of him, a mug of coffee in one hand.
He's showered and dressed—dark jeans, a gray Thompson Construction T-shirt that stretches across his chest and shoulders, work boots laced tight.
His hair is still damp, darker when it's wet, and he's clean-shaven now, which somehow makes his jaw look even more obscene.
He looks up when I shuffle in. His eyes widen, taking me in—rumpled, exhausted, barely dressed.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asks.
There's something in his tone. Not quite amusement, not quite concern. Something that makes me think he knows why I couldn't sleep, and it has nothing to do with being wired from my shift.
"Something like that," I mumble, making a beeline for the coffeepot.
My hands are shaking as I pour. Exhaustion, I tell myself. Just exhaustion.
"Did you get home okay last night?" He asks from behind me.
I glance over my shoulder. He's watching me, elbows on the table, coffee mug cradled in both hands. His gaze flicks down—just for a second—to my bare legs, then back up.
"Yeah. Late, but fine." I turn back to the counter, adding way too much creamer because my brain isn't firing on all cylinders. "The bar was packed. Mondays are trivia nights, and people get weird about trivia."
"Weird how?"
"Such as arguing over whether a hot dog is a sandwich levels of weird."
His mouth twitches. "Is it?"
"No," I say, turning to face him with my mug clutched in both hands like a lifeline. "It's a taco."
He blinks. Then, that almost-smile breaks through, just a little. "A taco?"
"Structurally speaking." I take a sip of coffee. It's too hot and burns my tongue, but I don't care. "If we're categorizing food by bread placement, a hot dog follows taco logic, not sandwich logic. Bread on three sides, not two."
"You think about this a lot?"
"I work at a bar. I think about a lot of stupid things a lot."
He huffs a quiet laugh, then takes a bite of eggs. I watch him chew, which is a weird thing to do, but I'm too tired to stop myself. He eats like he does everything else—methodical, controlled, no wasted motion.
"Are you always up this early?" I ask, leaning against the counter because standing unsupported feels like too much effort.
"Yeah. Old habit." He glances at me. "Sorry if I woke you."
"You didn't." Liar. "I just… couldn't settle."
His gaze lingers on me for a beat, like he's reading between the lines again. Then he sets down his fork and reaches for something on the chair next to him.
My rule packet.
And a small notebook.
Oh no.
"Actually," he says, "I'm glad you're up. I wanted to go over a few things before I head to the job site."
I stare at the notebook. "You… took notes?"
"I have questions."
"Questions."
"Clarifications," he corrects, flipping the notebook open. His handwriting is blocky and precise, each line numbered. Of course it is. "Some of your rules are pretty detailed, but I want to make sure I'm following them correctly."
I'm too tired for this. I'm too tired, too under-caffeinated, and too aware that I'm standing in my kitchen braless in front of a man who looks like he stepped out of a very specific fantasy I had at three a.m.
"Okay," I say. "Hit me."
He glances at his notes. "Rule three. No overnight guests."
"Right."
"Does 'overnight' have a specific time threshold?"
I blink. "What?"
"If someone is here past midnight but leaves by, say, two a.m., does that count as overnight? Or is there a cutoff?"
My brain stalls out. "I… I don't know. I guess if they're not sleeping over, it's not technically overnight?"
"Okay. So the rule is about sleeping arrangements, not time of day."
"Sure. Yes. That."
He makes a note. Actual note. With his pen. "And is this exclusively about romantic guests, or does it include friends crashing on the couch?"
Heat crawls up my neck. "Romantic. I meant romantic."
His eyes meet mine. "So, no one in my bed who isn't me."
I nearly drop my coffee mug.
"Got it," he says, perfectly calm, and moves on like he didn't just detonate a bomb in my brain.
I take a long, desperate gulp of coffee and pray for strength.
"Rule five," he continues. "Quiet hours. Midnight to ten a.m."
"Yes."
"Did I wake you this morning?" He looks up, something like regret flickering across his face. "I tried to be quiet in the shower, but if I need to adjust my routine—"
"No!" I interrupt, too loud. "No, you were fine. You were quiet. I just… I couldn't sleep. Not because of you. Because of… other reasons."
"Other reasons," he repeats, and there's that tone again, like he knows exactly what those reasons are.
I clutch my mug tighter. "What's your next question?"
He studies me for a second longer, then drops his gaze back to his notes. "Rule six. Thirty minutes for dishes."
"Yep."
"What if I'm cooking something that needs multiple pots? Does the timer start when I'm done eating, or when I first dirty the dish?"
I stare at him. "Are you serious right now?"
"I meal-prep on Sundays," he says, completely deadpan. "Sometimes I've got three or four things going at once. I don't want to be in violation because I didn't clarify the parameters."
"In violation," I echo.
"Of the rules."
"You sound like you're filing a report."
His mouth does that tiny twitch thing again. "Force of habit."
I sigh, running a hand over my face. "Okay. Fine. New rule amendment: if you're actively cooking, you get a grace period. Just don't leave stuff soaking overnight and we're good."
"Fair." He writes it down. "What about meal-prepping? If I've got containers going in stages—"
"Just clean as you go," I interrupt, because if I have to negotiate dish timelines at seven a.m. I'm going to lose my mind. "As long as the kitchen isn't a disaster when you're done, I don't care about the exact timeline."
He nods, making another note. "Appreciate the flexibility."
"You're welcome," I mutter into my coffee.
"Rule seven. Shared spaces."
I brace myself.
"Do you have preferences for the TV? Channels that are off-limits, volume levels, that kind of thing?"
"No. I watch cooking shows and true crime. Sometimes both at the same time if I'm feeling chaotic."
His mouth curves just a little. "Of course you do."
I narrow my eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing." But he's smiling now, small and brief. "Just fits."
"Fits what?"
"You."
My stomach flips. I don't know what to do with that, so I deflect. "What do you watch?"
"Sports. History Channel. Whatever's on."
"So we're not going to fight over the remote?"
"Probably not." He pauses. "Unless you want to."
There's a beat of silence. His gray eyes hold mine, and I swear there's a challenge buried in there somewhere, under all that calm.
I look away first. "Next question."
He lets it go, flipping a page in his notebook. "Rule ten."
Oh no.
"No flirting," I blurt out. "Pretty straightforward."
"Is it?"
"Yes."
"You listed examples," he says, tapping the rule sheet. "But I want to make sure I understand the boundaries."
"The boundaries," I repeat faintly.
"Yeah." He leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. "You said no compliments about appearance that imply sexual interest. Where's the line between that and just being polite?"
My brain is malfunctioning. "I don't—I mean—just use common sense?"
"Give me an example."
"Of what?"
"Of a compliment that would be flirting versus one that wouldn't."
I gape at him. "You want me to give you examples of how to flirt with me so you know not to do it?"
"I want to make sure I don't cross the line by accident."
He says it so reasonably. So calmly. Like, this is a normal conversation to have first thing in the morning while I'm standing here in sleep shorts and an old T-shirt with no bra.
"Okay," I say, voice slightly strangled. "Um. If you said, like, 'Nice shirt,' that's fine. If you said, 'That shirt makes your tits look great,' that's flirting."
His eyebrows lift.
"Or—or not flirting. That's just inappropriate. That's—forget I said that."
"Got it. Tits are off-limits."
"Oh my God."
"What about your legs?"
I choke on my coffee. "What?"
"If I said your legs looked good. Would that be flirting?"
"Yes!"
"Even if it's objectively true?"
My face is on fire. "It doesn't matter if it's true! That's—that's the point of the rule!"
He nods slowly, processing this. "So, observational compliments about your physical appearance are off-limits."
"Yes."
"What about proximity?"
I blink. "What?"
"You said no standing too close for no reason. What's the acceptable distance?"
"I don't know. Personal space."
"Define personal space."
"I—" I gesture helplessly. "Like, arm's length? Maybe?"
"Show me."
"Show you?"
He stands.
Oh no.
He's so much bigger when he's standing. The kitchen shrinks around him; the table between us isn’t nearly enough barrier. He steps around it, closing the distance, and stops about three feet away.
"This far?" he asks.
"That's… that's fine."
He takes another step. "This?"
I swallow. "Still fine."
Another step. Now he's close enough that I can smell his soap and the faint scent of laundry detergent from his shirt. Close enough to see the flecks of darker gray in his eyes.
"This?"
"That's…" My voice comes out breathless. "That's the line."
He doesn't move. Just looks down at me, his expression unreadable. "Good to know."
Then he reaches past me—slowly, deliberately—and grabs the coffee pot from the counter behind me.
Our bodies don't touch, but it's close. So close, his body heat radiates; the solid presence of his chest inches from my shoulder.
"Like that?" he asks, voice low. "Would that count?"
I forgot how to breathe. "Count as what?"
"Lingering."
His hand is still on the coffee pot. He's still leaning in, crowding my space without touching me. My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it.
"Yes," I whisper. "That would count."
"Noted." He pours himself more coffee, then steps back, putting a careful three feet between us again. "Anything else I should know?"
I stare at him standing there, mug in hand, expression neutral except for the tiniest hint of amusement in his eyes.
He just… he just lawyer-ed me. He systematically walked through my rules, tested my boundaries, and made me spell out exactly what counts as flirting while standing in my kitchen half-dressed and sleep-deprived.
"No," I manage. "I think we're good."
"Great." He glances at the clock on the stove. "I should head out. First day." He picks up his dishes, rinses them, and puts them in the dishwasher.
"Right. Yeah. Good luck." I stumble over the words as I clutch at my coffee like a lifeline.
He moves toward the door, grabbing his keys—my cactus keychain—and a thermos I didn't notice before. At the doorway, he pauses and looks back.
"Thanks for the clarification," he says. "I think I understand the rules now." A pause. "All of them."
There's weight in those words. Weight I don't know how to interpret.
"Sure," I say. "No problem."
He studies me for another beat, gaze sweeping over my face like he's cataloging something. Then, quietly says, "Try to get some sleep, Ainsley. You look exhausted."
Not "tired." Exhausted.
Like he knows I was lying awake thinking about him. Like he can see straight through me.
And then he's gone, the front door clicking shut behind him.
I stand in the kitchen, coffee mug trembling in my hands, staring at the space where he was.
"What," I say to the empty room, "the hell just happened?"