The first thing Ava is aware of is the sound of the house.

It is a specific sound — floorboards settling, the coffee maker gurgling two floors down, something in Dom's corner of the kitchen being moved with the efficiency of a man who has been up for an hour already. She knows this sound the way she knows the particular weight of Caleb's arm across her waist, which is where it is right now, warm and unhurried against her skin.

She opens her eyes. Caleb's bedroom ceiling. The water stain in the northwest corner that they keep meaning to have someone look at. The thin gray light of an October morning in Portland coming through curtains he chose for their light-blocking properties, which are not great.

This is, by her count, the fourteenth Tuesday she has woken up here. She is not counting. But she knows it is the fourteenth.

"You're thinking loud," Caleb says. He has not opened his eyes.

"I have an interview at ten."

"I know. You told me last night."

"I'm telling you again."

He pulls her a little closer instead of answering, his mouth against the back of her neck, and for a moment she lets the interview be ten o'clock's problem and this be right now's. He is warm and he smells like himself and the particular way he wakes up — slowly, thoroughly, like he has decided to pay attention to all of it — is one of her favorite things about being in this bed.

"Caleb."

"Mm."

"I actually have to get ready."

"You have an hour and forty minutes."

"I know how much time I have."

He laughs, which she feels against her shoulder blade, and lets her go. She rolls over to look at him. He is watching her with the specific unhurried expression he has when he is awake but not in any hurry to prove it — dark eyes, hair that has done something complicated overnight, the easy comfort of someone who has never once been self-conscious about being looked at.

"Good luck," he says.

"You're not going to do anything to help me actually get out of this bed?"

"No," he says. "But I'm definitely rooting for you."

She kisses him once, quickly, on the corner of his mouth, and gets up before the once becomes something longer. This is a skill she has developed. She finds her clothes on the floor — she keeps a spare set in his room now, which they have not discussed — and takes them with her into the hallway.

The upstairs bathroom is the house's primary logistical challenge. One shower, five people, schedules that align in complicated ways. The system that has evolved is loose and requires tolerance, which the Larimer House has in abundance.

She pushes open the door with her hip, arms full, and walks into a wall of steam.

Nate is stepping out of the shower.

This is not the first time this has happened. The bathroom is small — not alarmingly small, but small enough that when a six-foot man steps out of the shower while you are simultaneously trying to find the toothpaste, the situation has a certain geographical intimacy built in. He reaches past her for the towel on the back of the door, which requires him to be very close to her for approximately three seconds.

"Morning," he says, unhurried.

"Your schedule changed," she says.

"Overnight shift, finished at six." He wraps the towel at his waist. She is not not looking. She has given up pretending she is not looking. He is built the way that twelve-hour ER shifts and a standing gym membership produce — substantial, matter-of-fact, completely without performance about it. "How is the interview prep?"

"Good. Fine. I need the mirror."

He steps slightly to the left, which is not quite enough. She squeezes past him to get to the sink and the proximity involved — wet skin, steam, the specific awareness of a body that has been extremely close to hers in this exact bathroom before — does something predictable to the morning.

"Ava," he says.

"I'm brushing my teeth."

"I know." He is watching her in the mirror. He does this — looks directly at the thing, without the courtesy of pretending not to see it. "You have time."

She holds his gaze in the mirror for a beat. His expression is the same as always: direct, certain, not pushing. Just naming. The towel is not doing very much work as a signal of unavailability.

"I really do have an interview," she says.

"At ten."

"Yes."

"It is currently seven forty-three."

She puts the toothbrush down.

The thing about Nate is that he means what he says and says what he means, which in the Larimer House is a form of fluency, and also that when he kisses her he does it with the focused attention of a man who has learned to be fully present when he has the time, and right now he has the time. She ends up with her back against the counter and his towel on the floor and the steam from his shower still in the air and the mirror fogged over and both of them efficiently, specifically, very awake.

He has one hand in her hair and one arm around her waist and he is paying attention in the dedicated, particular way that used to catch her off guard and does not anymore, only now she is paying attention back and the forty-five minutes between now and when she needs to leave the house is looking like a very reasonable amount of time.

Afterward she is sitting on the edge of the counter, which is where she ended up, and he is leaning against the opposite wall with the practiced calm of a man who is not late for anything.

"You are going to be great in that interview," he says.

"You say that because you do not know anything about branding."

"I say it because I know you." He reaches over and takes the toothbrush from the holder and hands it to her, which is a very Nate gesture — the specific practical care underneath the directness. "Go brush your teeth."

She does. He gets dressed in the bathroom with the comfortable efficiency of someone who shares space easily. She changes into her interview clothes in the hallway and takes a moment to remember what professional looks like.

Downstairs, Dom is at the stove.

He is always at the stove on his mornings off, and his mornings off overlap with the early morning precisely because he works evenings and keeps kitchen hours regardless. The stove produces a smell that this morning involves butter and something with herbs and possibly the leeks he mentioned buying two days ago.

"You look good," he says, without turning from the stove.

"You have not looked at me."

"I heard you on the stairs. Your interview shoes sound different from your regular shoes." He turns then, and he does look at her — with the warm, assessing attention he gives to things he is interested in. "You look good," he says again, like he needed to verify it in person.

"Thank you. Is there coffee?"

"Mug on the right." He turns back to the stove. "Do you want breakfast? I have ten minutes before this needs all of my—"

"I cannot." She picks up the travel mug he has already filled. He does this — anticipates, prepares, has things ready before you know you need them. It is the most quietly attentive thing about him and she has decided to find it endearing rather than disorienting. "Save me something?"

"Leek frittata. I will put your name on it."

"In the fridge with the label and everything?"

"In the fridge with the label and everything."

Jill comes out of her bedroom in pajamas and the expression of someone who has been awake for approximately four minutes. She takes the coffee Dom left on the counter — he left coffee on the counter — and looks at Ava.

"You're really dressed," Jill says.

"Interview."

"Right." Jill studies her. "You're nervous."

"I am not nervous."

"Your ponytail is tighter than usual."

Ava touches her hair. The ponytail is, in fact, tighter than usual. She considers adjusting it and decides this is not the hill she is going to die on with four minutes until she needs to leave.

"I have to go," she says.

"You're going to get it," Dom says, still at the stove.

"You do not know what the job is."

"You're going to get it," he says again. She picks up her bag. He turns and looks at her one more time, with the same steady warmth. "Go."

She goes. The door of the Larimer House closes behind her, and the October morning is cold and bright, and she is seven minutes early for the bus, which is more than she deserves given the morning she has had.