There are at least six bottles of premium organic orange juice.
The expensive kind.
The kind I used to stare at in the grocery store and think,Maybe someday.
"You bought out the entire juice aisle," I say.
"I wanted to ensure you had options."
"Cyprian. This is twelve bottles of orange juice."
"Six."
"There are more in the other refrigerator."
I turn slowly.
"Theotherrefrigerator?"
He gestures to a second, smaller fridge built into the kitchen island.
I walk over and open it.
More orange juice.
Also: fresh fruit. Yogurt. Cheese. Deli meat. Everything neatly organized and labeled.
"You have a refrigerator dedicated to my snacks," I say.
"Yes."
"This is insane."
"This is practical."
I close the fridge and turn to face him.
He's standing in the middle of the kitchen, his wings folded tight, watching me with an expression that can only be described as smug satisfaction.
"You're enjoying this," I say.
"I am."
"You like taking care of me."
"Yes."
"It's a control thing, isn't it?"
"It is a devotion thing."
I snort.
"Same thing."
He crosses the room in two strides.
His hands settle on my waist, lifting me effortlessly onto the kitchen counter.
