He didn’t make me say it twice. “Lead the way” would have been a joke. Luke just nodded once, keys already in his hand, and followed me out of Lab 7 like the sentence had been waiting on the bench with the clamps. The lot was emptying under the late afternoon sun. His truck sat three rows past my hatchback. “One car,” I said, stopping beside my door. “Yours stays. Logistics.” His mouth tipped at the corner. “Logistics.” He got in on the passenger side, dumping his canvas tool bag on the rear floorboard. He smelled like the machine shop and the same clean soap as Friday. I started the engine before NELL could offer traffic routing through my phone. We did not go to Thai. We had done Thai. We stopped at an unpretentious drive-thru counter downtown for food that came in grease-spotted paper bags and required zero performance. He paid. I let him. The prototype was dead and I was not going to have a financial-management debate over foil-wrapped sandwiches. At my building, he carried the bags up the stairs. I unlocked the door. The lights came up in their evening sequence. “Welcome home, Claire,” NELL said from the ceiling. “Luke Hayes is not listed as an expected visitor.” “I know.” Luke set the paper bags down on the island. “Should I make an appointment?” “Don't encourage her,” I said. He tipped his head at the toaster, which gave a short click and flashed amber on its display. He gave it a small, respectful nod like an old acquaintance. That was enough apartment tour. We ate standing up at the kitchen counter because sitting at the dining table felt like an agenda. The week’s lingering adrenaline came out in pieces—the C-clamps, Dana’s face during the review, the Bridgeport tool marks—and then ran out of air. Luke leaned back, his hip finding the exact stretch of counter Friday had claimed. I noticed. He noticed me notice. “You said come over,” he said. “I did.” “You deleted it once.” “I know what I deleted, Hayes.” He set his empty wrapper on the quartz. “Claire.” I stepped in. His hands went to my waist. I had his shirt in my fists. We turned and my back found the counter edge, the same geography as Friday, except this time I didn’t tell him to stop. “Guest duration—” NELL began from the overhead grille. “Log off,” I said against his mouth. A pause. Then, flat and prim: “Logging off kitchen microphones. Smoke detector battery remains overdue. This is my last note.” “Thank you,” Luke told the ceiling, laughing into my mouth, and then his thigh was between mine and there was nothing funny about the pressure. His palm slid over denim first, a question. I said yes against his teeth. He got the button, then the zipper, his hand sliding in, and I was already being obvious about it, which should have been embarrassing and was instead just data. “Okay?” he said, rough. “If you stop to take minutes, I will revoke your guest status.” He huffed a laugh against my jaw. Two fingers, slow, then sure, the heel of his hand right where I needed it. I held the cold edge of the sink and tried to keep my feet. Glasses still on. His mouth hot on my throat. The wet sound of it in my quiet kitchen. I came like that, standing, one boot still planted, a broken noise into his shoulder that the house was not allowed to file. He eased his hand out like the specification had changed. I dropped my forehead against his collarbone and laughed once, breathless, because a standing orgasm in the kitchen next to greasy takeout bags was not in any protocol I had ever written. “Hall,” I managed, when I could. “Yeah.” We were a mess getting there. His shirt came off halfway down the hall. My jeans were shoved down and kicked into the bedroom doorway. Glasses on the dresser this time. He sat on the edge of the mattress to get his own boots and jeans off, and I stood there in my socks and watched him do it, which felt more intimate than the counter, somehow. I pulled him down. He went. The first time inside was a stretch I had to breathe around. He held completely still, his forearms bracketing my head, waiting. “I’m good,” I said. “Tell me if you’re not.” “I will. Move.” He moved. Not a show. Not a position change every eight seconds. Just weight and heat and the look on his face when he stopped trying to be careful and started simply being in it. I had my hand locked on the back of his neck. I didn’t come again; I didn’t need a matching set. When he went over, it was into the hollow of my throat, one raw, undone sound, and we stayed like that—messy, heavy, breathing together, my calf hooked over his because it had nowhere else to go. After a minute, I said, “Stay.” “Yeah.” NELL stayed logged off. For once, she was useful. Morning arrived in sharp, pale sunlight across the hardwood floor. Luke walked into the kitchen wearing yesterday’s dark jeans, his hair looking like it had lost a decisive battle with a pillow. I handed him a mug of black coffee. He stopped in front of the island, eyeing the toaster. “Light brown,” I said from the sink. “Not golden.” He glanced up at the vent. “Am I allowed?” “You may address the appliance,” NELL said, back online and completely unbothered. “Preset: Claire. Light brown. Do not request golden. She will take it personally.” “I wasn’t going to,” Luke said to the ceiling. “Good,” I said. The toaster whirred softly. Amber glow, heating coils engaged, bread descending into the slots. Luke leaned both forearms against the counter, watching the tiny OLED progress bar like it was a rig waiting for a load cycle. “Your house is still a trip.” “You’re in it.” The toast popped with a crisp mechanical snap. Light brown, exactly to specification. Luke pulled a slice out, set it on a plate, and buttered it with methodical precision. He picked it up and inspected the surface. “Okay,” he said. I leaned back against the counter with my mug. “Okay what?” He took a bite. “The toaster can stay.” “It’s my toaster.” “I’m being generous.” “Get out of my kitchen, Hayes.” He took another bite, leaning in close enough that his shoulder bumped mine, and didn't move an inch.

Chapter 19: Come Over