She shrugs. “Confidence booster.”
The second round, I do better. She stands close when she explains how my grip is too tight, her shoulder brushing mine, her hand briefly covering my wrist to adjust the angle.
The contact is brief. My reaction is not.
I’m suddenly very aware of how close she is. Of the heat of her body beside mine. Of the way she smells faintly like soap and vanilla.
“Like that,” she says softly, stepping back.
I throw. Bull’s-eye.
She blinks and then laughs. “Okay, maybe you’re not hopeless.”
“High praise,” I say dryly, not used to being the weak link in anything.
Pool comes next. Thankfully a game I’ve played many times.
She lines up a shot, bending over the table, completely unselfconscious. I force myself to focus on the balls instead of the curve of her back or the way her jeans pull tight across her hips.
I step behind her to adjust her stance, pure instinct, then stop short when I realize how easily I could touch her.
I don’t, and she sinks the shot anyway.
She straightens, smiling. “You were going to help.”
“I was going to distract myself,” I say.
Her smile turns knowing, and luckily, our food arrives. We eat with our hands. Grease on fingers. Salt on lips. She steals one of my fries without asking. I don’t stop her. I like how comfortable she is with me.
We talk more than I expected to. About my residency. About stupid mistakes. About nothing important at all. I tell her a story about falling asleep standing up and hitting my head on the wall during a twenty-eight-hour shift, and she laughs so hard that she has to wipe at her eyes.
I can’t remember the last time someone laughed at my stories like this.
At some point, she studies me over the rim of her glass.
“You’re different tonight,” she says.
I shrug. “Am I?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Looser. Less … wound up.”
“I like you like this,” she adds, not pushing, not asking for anything.
We leave the bar later than planned, the night cool and buzzing as we step back onto the sidewalk. She slips her hand into mine without thinking. Her fingers are warm. They feel familiar.
The drive back to my building is easy. Quiet in a way that isn’t heavy. She hums along to a song on the radio, head tipped back against the seat.
When we get to the garage, I turn off the engine, but don’t move right away.
She looks at me, brows lifting slightly. “What?”
I lean in and kiss her. It’s slow, unhurried, tasting beer and salt and uniquely her.
“Just needed that,” I murmur against her mouth.
She smiles, soft and pleased. “Good.”
Upstairs, the penthouse is quiet and dark, city lights spilling in through the windows. She kicks off her shoes and wanders toward the glass, hands tucked into her pockets.