I sent it anyway.
I’ll be there in 20 minutes, he responded. Then:Maybe 15. I walk fast.
Ten minutes later, not that I was counting, there was a knock at my door.
I had used that time to brush my teeth, splash water on my face, change out of my sleep shirt into a slightly nicer sleep shirt, and panic about the state of my apartment. I shoved a pile of dirty laundry into my closet, kicked some books under the couch, wiped down the kitchen counter with a paper towel that may or may not have been clean, and decided the rest was good enough.
I checked myself in the mirror one more time. My hair was doing a thing. Not a good thing, but a thing. There wasn’t time to fix it. I smoothed it down with my hands, took a breath, and reminded myself that this was just pastries. Just a friend bringing pastries. Very normal, nothing to panic about.
I was absolutely panicking.
I opened the door and Caelan was standing in my hallway, holding a bakery box large enough to feed a small army. His hair was slightly disheveled, wind or fingers, I couldn’t tell, and he was wearing a soft gray Henley that did unfair things to his shoulders. In his other hand was a gift bag.
“You do have a pastry problem,” I stepped back to let him in, suddenly very aware that I was in pajama shorts and a t-shirt that said “PLOT TWIST” across the chest. “Thessa was right.”
His eyes dropped to my shirt, lingered for a moment, then returned to my face with a hint of a smile. “Plot twist?”
“It’s a writing thing.”
“I gathered.” He stepped past me, close enough that I caught his scent, and his voice dropped slightly. “Though I’m curious what the twist is right now.”
“There is no twist. It’s just a shirt.”
“Disappointing. I was hoping for something dramatic.”
He set the bakery box on my kitchen counter and surveyed my apartment with a curious expression. His gaze landed on the closet door, which was bulging suspiciously from the laundry I’d crammed inside, then moved to the edge of a book spine visible beneath my couch.
“You cleaned for me?” He asked.
“What? No. This is how it always looks.”
“There’s a sock hanging out of your closet.”
I looked. There was, in fact, a sock. A bright pink one, dangling from the door like a flag of surrender.
“That sock lives there,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster. “It’s decorative. Very intentional. It’s a design choice.”
His mouth twitched. “I see. And the books pushed under your couch?”
“Floor storage. It’s trendy. You wouldn’t understand. It’s a Lysmont thing.”
He was definitely trying not to laugh now. “I apologize. I’m unfamiliar with Lysmont interior design trends.”
“Obviously. You’re from Duskland. Different aesthetic sensibilities.”
“Clearly.” He held out the gift bag. “This is for you.”
“What’s this?”
“A gift.”
“You already brought pastries.”
“Well, this is different.”
I opened the bag and pulled out a book. It took me a moment to register what I was looking at. It was “His Darkest Obsession,” the book we’d been reading for book club. But this copy was different. It was signed by the author, with a personalized message on the title page that read: “To Riley: may you find your own morally gray love interest who would commit murder for you. XOXO, Mara Chen.”
“How did you...” I looked up at him, genuinely stunned. “How did you get this?”
