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“Where have you been?” he asks, voice edged with tension.
I blink up at him, surprised. “Dinner with Diane.”
“What time do you call this?”
A tipsy laugh escapes me. “I have no idea what time it is, so I’m not calling it anything.”
“You’re drunk.”
“I wouldn’t say drunk,” I reply, though the porch light seems to tilt a little. “Maybe…gently buzzed.”
Levi steps closer, eyes scanning my face. “I’ve been calling you for hours. I was about to start checking hospitals.”
The smile slips from my face. For a moment I just look at him.
“You were worried about me?” I ask. A smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it. “You’re sweet, do you know that?”
“I’m not sweet.”
“You are. A little.”
“I’m not,” he mutters, but some of the tension drains from his shoulders. He takes my keys, unlocks the door, and gestures for me to go inside, as if he’s personally responsible for my safe return.
“Has Fifi had her medication?” he asks, already heading toward the kitchen.
Guilt hits me. “Oh no.”
“I’ll do it.”
He says it so calmly—already rolling up his sleeves and opening the cabinet where I keep Fifi’s medication—that a wave of warmth blooms in my chest.
I lean against the kitchen archway and watch him. This is the same man who once showed up at my door and bluntly told me he wanted to sleep with me. Now he’s measuring drops with precision, hiding them in a piece of cheese like it’s the most important task in the world.
Fifi swallows the cheese in one gulp, gives him a suspicious look, then waddles back to her bed.
“Ungrateful little demon,” he mutters.
“She likes you,” I say, smiling.
“She pees on me.”
“That’s how she shows affection.”
He gives me a flat look. “If that’s affection, I’d hate to see what the little corpse does when she’s pissed off.”
I laugh and lean more heavily against the archway, suddenly feeling shy. My fingers drift up to touch my freshly done hair.
“Do you notice anything different about me?” I ask.
Levi steps closer. He scans my face with that intense focus of his, tilting his head one way, then the other.
“No?” he says finally, looking genuinely pained at the possibility he’s missed something.
“My grays are gone,” I prompt, running my fingers through the soft blonde strands. “I had my hair done this afternoon.”
He blinks, then stares at my hair for a long moment like he’s trying to spot the difference. Finally he shrugs, completely unbothered.
“Looks the same to me.” But then his eyes widen, like he’s just realized he said the wrong thing. “But it looks good,” he adds quickly. “Really good.”
