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My heart squeezes, an action it now specializes in. Things have been almost suspiciously good. I haven’t stopped tormenting him, obviously. Two days ago, I moved every piece of silverware one drawer to the left and let him question reality for twenty minutes. But I’ve eased off—a little. There’s a difference between Gage being an anal-retentive control freak who deserves psychological warfare and Gage quietly surviving the approach of Halloween.

Three nights ago, he woke so violently I nearly rolled off the mattress. One second he was asleep. The next, he was upright, breathing like he’d run miles, one arm searching blindly through the darkness—for me. Not a weapon. Not his phone. Me.

I’d barely gotten his name out before he caught me around the waist and hauled me against his chest. It was three-thirty in the morning, which meant that for once, Gage Cannon had accidentally entered my natural habitat hours.

I didn’t ask what he dreamed. I didn’t tell him it wasn’t real or that everything was okay when clearly some part of him wasn’t. I just stayed, his face buried against my neck, my fingers moving through his hair while his breathing slowly matched mine. Eventually, he whispered, “Sorry.”

I told him to shut the fuck up. He did. Progress.

Fur nudges my calf. Tartlet. Cannoli sits beside her. Then Muffin arrives, and the other three mosey into the kitchen behind him, mewling softly. Six cats staring expectantly at me.

Uh-oh.

Gage has stopped unpacking. His eyes travel from the cats to me, then very slowly to the top of the refrigerator, where the treat tub sits nearly half-empty.

“Before you say anything⁠—”

“That was full yesterday.”

“Allegedly.”

“Jubilee.”

“Circumstantial evidence.”

Cannoli chirps. I press a finger to my lips. “Shh…don’t testify against me.”

Gage closes his eyes, and I can practically hear him counting to ten. When they reopen, he gestures at the cats. “They had breakfast.”

“They were hungry.” Now, I shrug.

“They’re always hungry.”

Muffin meows loudly.

“Thank you.” I set my hands on my hips, direct to Gage. “That sounds like victim blaming.”

Gage points to me. “You’re on thin ice.”

Muffin walks away. Coward.

I help him unload the rest: sourdough from the only baker he considers respectable, eggs because apparently his chickens are freeloaders this week, and enough apples to open a cider mill.

Then, his movements stop, and I know what he sees before I follow his gaze. The envelope. It’s sitting on the coffee table beside my laptop, its seal broken.

Gage straightens slowly. “You opened it.”

I wipe my palms down my skirt. “The envelope.” His eyes come back to mine. “I opened the envelope, but I haven’t read the letter yet.”

“Why?”

My throat tightens. “I wanted you here.”

A quiet devastation moves through his face. He comes around the island, cups the back of my neck, and presses his forehead to mine. “Okay.”

That’s all. No speech about being honored. No insistence that I don’t need him. Just okay. Exactly what I needed.

We put away the rest of the groceries first, because existential crises should not interrupt proper produce storage. Gage makes coffee. Then we settle onto the couch, my legs folded beneath me and Gage close enough that our thighs touch.