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“Bulviniai blynai. Potato pancakes. And yes, your mother. And your sister. They like to talk.”

“I mean, you’re not wrong.” Poet eats a pancake in one bite. “But how do you know?”

I love watching him eat. It makes me love him more, and maybe Sol will know why. “Your sister called your phone,” I tell Poet. “Then your mother. I answered so they wouldn’t worry. Then Iggy called me to apologise, though I am not sure what for.”

“You got played.”

“What?”

Poet eats more food. “Think about it…why would my sister and my mum call me? They knew full well you’d answer—or they at least had some kind of bet running that you might.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh. Damn, this is good.”

“You like it?”

Poet nods around a mouthful of food. “I could eat it every day for the rest of my life.”

“That does not sound bad to me.”

His eyes lift to mine. The smile fades from his lips, leaving something softer behind. “Does it still bother you to feel that way?”

I think about the fire. About how quickly fate and destiny can change. I thought I’d made my feelings clear when I’d pulled Poet down from Edna, but maybe he doesn’t remember. Or maybe he needs me to say it again. “It doesn’t bother me.” I reach for his hand. “And I think Gabija is telling us we should not waste time.”

Poet mouths the unfamiliar word.

I say it again. Slower. “Gabija is the Lithuanian goddess of fire and the home, and my heart is telling me she spared your farm for a reason. That she left me a hearth.” I touch my chest with my free hand. “Perhaps I’ve spent too much time with Sol, but the folklore I left behind means more to me now than it ever did back home.”

Poet has finished eating. He sets his plate aside and rubs his thumb over my knuckles. “Can I tell you what I believe?”

“Of course.”

“I think Ivy found you for me.”

Warmth expands my ribs. “That would make sense. I have wondered recently if Aras chose you for me. And…I need you to know something.” I squeeze his fingers. “Whether he did or not, I would not change it. And if you want to eat bulviniai blynai every day, then I will make them for you.”

“Every day?”

“Taip. Yes. If that’s what you want.”

Poet’s blue eyes shine. “I think it might just be.”

Something inside me gives way. Gives in, the last guard around my heart, perhaps. I do not know. All I am certain of is that I am where I’m meant to be, and so is Poet. I am happy. But one thought sobers me—a showdown with my imagination I have danced away from until now. “Where were you when you first saw the fire?”

Poet’s expression dims, as if he senses where I am going with this. “In the fields.”

“What if you had been asleep?”

“I wasn’t.”

“Po.”

He sighs, but there is no irritation in his voice when he speaks. “That barn falling would’ve woken me. It shook the whole farm. But I get what you’re saying, and I’ll hook up the rest of the alert aids I have later. I have one that shakes the whole bed.”

“It wakes you up?”

“Trust me, my sister made sure of it.”