The first meeting

You move in late at night.

The elevator is jammed with boxes, a stroller, a tired toddler, and one very frazzled mother.

The elevator stops on the penthouse floor.

He gets in.

Black shirt. Tattoos disappearing beneath his sleeves and crawling up his neck. Expensive watch. Dark hair. Light brown eyes.

He looks at the wall of boxes.

Then at you.

Then at the screaming child.

You immediately assume he’s going to complain.

Instead, he simply takes the heaviest box from your hands.

You tell him.

He presses the button.

You look at him warily.

His mouth quirks.