Sigourney wearily made up her face and curled her dark red hair. After the unfortunate breakfast that Tasha had tried to prepare, she had run around the house fluffing pillows and dusting shelves. Everything in its proper place. She silently told herself. Cut the clutter. Mind the floor. Stop the scratches on the door.

While Tasha scraped his burnt mess from the pan. “You look nicer without make-up,” he teased relentlessly. “You shouldn’t wear anything that attracts attention to your mouth.”

Sig scowled at him. What did she care what he thought?
“Remember, stay away from him, please. It’s rather hard to explain a Russian guy sleeping on my couch.”

“You have a Russian guy on your couch? Oh, wait, I think I heard this joke before—”

“I’m serious. Henry doesn’t exactly understand things of this nature.”
With one raised eyebrow, Tasha agreed. He didn’t come up with a witty retort, or try to badger her in some way. Tasha saw how nervous she was, and wished that he was the cause of it.