He hits the button for the garage door, probably already thinking about some threat that needs tracing. Then the door lifts. And balloons pour out.
A carnival exploding in real time. Red, white, and neon-colored balloons cascade forward, bouncing off his chest, his boots, the driveway. One with a badly drawn clown face spins around and bumps his knee like it's personally offended him.
Knox goes stock-still. Even from the window, I can see his jaw lock.
His mouth moves around three clear words. "What the fuck."
I clap a hand over my mouth, shoulders shaking. Tears prick the corners of my eyes as he swats uselessly at the balloons, trying to wade through. One gets trapped under his boot and he nearly slips, catching himself with a curse that echoes through the glass.
I force my face neutral, spin away, and hustle back to the stove. By the time the front door slams open, I'm chopping onions like the picture of domestic innocence.
His boots hit the hallway with more force than necessary. "Sloane."
I keep my eyes on the board. "Hey, baby. How was your—"
He appears in the doorway, all irritated biker energy with stray balloon static clinging to his hoodie. A red balloon squeezes around his arm and drifts in behind him, a guilty accomplice trailing its co-conspirator.
"What," he says, measured and dangerous, "did you do to my garage?"
I blink, blade stilling. "Your garage?"
"Don't do that voice. The voice you use when you're lying to toddlers."
"I don't lie to toddlers."
His eyes narrow. "You lie to Ruby all the time."
"That's different." I shrug, scraping onions into the pan. "What happened to your garage?"
"A clown happened to my garage." Low, dangerous. "There are balloons everywhere. One laughed when I popped it."
I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood. "Maybe it was just the air escaping."
"It winked at me, Sloane."
I risk a glance. Red marker smeared on his jaw. From the clown balloon, probably. Absurd and weirdly adorable, and I desire to lick it off. Or laugh in his face. Both.
"Must've been a long day," I murmur, turning back before my expression gives me away. "Wash up for dinner. Food's almost ready."
He stands there, watching me as though he's deciding if choking on spaghetti is a reasonable punishment.
"Did you do it?" he asks finally.
"Do what?"
His exhale is pure murder. "You're enjoying this."
I allow myself the smallest smile. "I enjoy you being home."
A beat. Then a low, unwilling huff that's not quite a laugh. He mutters something obscene and stomps toward the bedroom. Throughout dinner, he glowers and smirks in equal measure,irritated, amused, and turned on all at once. Every time I catch his gaze, it slides over my bare legs, up the hem of his shirt, and lingers. Weighing whether to bend me over the table or interrogate me about balloon placement.
He twirls pasta without eating. "You gonna tell me why my garage looks like a serial killer's birthday party?"
I take a measured sip of wine. "Garage décor is a personal journey, Knox. I don't want to intrude."
He points his fork at me. "You and your little coven are up to something."
The word lands warm in my chest. Coven. Us. "We're just spending time together."
