i.

On the drive back, as he cracks sunflower seed shells with his teeth, he says, "You really want to punch me every five minutes?"

She shrugs her shoulders, lips turning at the corners into a small smile. "Sometimes every three."

"Come on," he intones. "I'm not that bad, am I?" She just arches a brow, rolls down the window and wiggles her fingers out the window, feeling the breeze.

She looks at him, sunglasses on, fingers haphazardly spaced on the steering wheel. He grins at her, sunflower seed perfectly caught between two fingertips. She turns toward the window, the breeze tossing her curls.

"For what it's worth," he adds, "I'm glad you didn't shoot me."

She laughs.

ii.

She, it turns out, takes really long, hot showers.

He bangs on the door impatiently. "Myka, I swear to God—"

She pretends she doesn't hear him.

He groans, slings his towel over his shoulder, and heads back to his room. There probably won't be any hot water by the time she finishes anyway. When he hears the familiar final clunks of the water stopping in the old pipes, he rushes for the bathroom.

When she emerges, hair wet, towel wrapped tightly around her, he blinks, licks his lips. He can't think of anything to say, but he manages, "Any hot water left?"

She shakes her hair out. "Not my fault you're slow."

He glares at her. She smirks.

iii.

She takes her steaming cup of tea and her copy of "Leaves of Grass" and moves to sit on the sofa in the den. She turns on the small reading lamp, lays on the sofa, and starts reading.

The familiar words wash over her, fill her with comfort. She always enjoyed his celebratory tone. It was vivacious, inspired her. She sighs contentedly, turns the page.

She hears voices when she opens her eyes. She yawns. "You fell asleep," he says.

"What time is it?"

"Ten."

She huffs out a small laugh. "I can't believe it. In DC, I always felt like there wasn't enough time to do anything. Here, time just sort of drags on."

He hums. "You got that right. And Artie's updating the whatever on the computers in the Warehouse, so it's not even like I can play Tetris."

She rolls her eyes. "Tetris, my ass."

He flashes a grin. "What? I can't help it."

She stretches lazily on the sofa. "Such a liar." She turns to face him, spotting the book on the edge of the table. Crinkling her nose, she asks, "Did you move my book?"

He gives a little shrug.

She reaches for it, a leather-bound edition, the skin of the cover feels worn and familiar beneath her fingertips.

"Want to play 20 Questions?"

She sighs. "You're not allowed to pick Jessica Alba for every answer, okay?"

"What?" he cracks. "She's—"

"Hot, yes, I get it." Myka takes her hair into her hands, moves it all in front of one shoulder as she turns to lie on her side. "You want to go first?"

He rubs his hands together. "All right, animal, vegetable, or mineral?"

iv.

She bothers Leena to let her cook sometimes, if only because she feels guilty making this one woman prepare their meals for them. Granted, their town seems to consist of only the four of them, and Leena's used to things being this way, but Myka's not the kind of person to let sleeping dogs lie.

Fast forward a couple weeks and even Pete's joining in the new tradition.

Myka's a manageable cook. She's no gourmand, but her mother's taught her enough that she can get by. That night, she makes shepherd's pie and cornbread. Comfort food.

At the table, they quickly eat. Pete slathers his food all together in a giant blob. It makes her cringe. She keeps her piles of food away from each other, takes a few bites of each pile, but keeps them segregated.

"Myka," he says, mouth full, "This is really good!"

She swallows her bite of beef stew. "Thanks."

Four weeks later, when she decides spaghetti, Pete interferes. In the kitchen, tasting the sauce, he goes, "It needs more oregano."

She blinks, tastes a little for herself. "What are you talking about? It's perfect."

"It's bland."

She snatches the wooden spoon from him, lifting her index finger. "Pete, don't touch the sauce."

He inches his fingers closer to the spice rack. She slaps his hand.

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're thinking of doing something."

(When she drains the spaghetti, he adds a little more onion powder, oregano, and a dash of red pepper flakes.)

"I'm not thinking of doing anything. You psychic now?"

She tastes the sauce before they serve it. "Pete! You touched my sauce."

(The week after that, she interferes with Pete's chili.)

v.

They go running together.

Well, it's more like she decides to go running and he tags along to bother her. It's the only way the both of them can keep in shape out here in the middle of nowhere. She jogs on the dusty dirt road, sometimes with her iPod, but mostly with her thoughts.

He matches her stride, stays with her, though he could easily pass her. Sometimes, it's silent, just the sound of their feet hitting the ground. And sometimes, they chat. Well, he chats. He rambles on about DC and missing real Indian food or Thai food or even just take-out once in a while, but Middle of Nowhere, South Dakota has its charms sometimes, like when it's a clear night and he can see hundreds of stars. It reminds him of when his dad used to take him camping, he says.

He's usually the one to mention vibes, but she has one now: she gets the feeling that the run is just about his catharsis as it is for hers. She doesn't say anything, and they get lost in the rhythm of it all. Breathing in every two steps, breathing out every two steps – feeling the pulse beat underneath the skin.

When they finally stop, they split a water bottle, skin hot and sweaty. At his windedness, she teases, "Getting old there."

"Shut up," he says.

The sun begins to set.