Because why, exactly? That part didn’t make sense.
Twenty thousand pounds worth of gold wasn’t friendly. Neither was cashmere, nor special edition books, nor gorgeous flowers…although, technically, Sam wasn’t a hundred percent sure they had left the gifts, but no one else in his life had mentioned them.
“Stop projecting,” Sam told himself firmly.
But the fantasy had hooks in him now. He imagined what it would be like coming home to three people instead of just Basil. Cooking dinner with Rux, who’d probably critique his technique while simultaneously praising every bite. Letting Mabon handle the bills Sam always stressed over. Learning Urien’s garden secrets and getting dirt under his own fingernails.
Sharing a bed… Sam’s cheeks were burning just thinking about it.
He’d written scenes like that a dozen times. Three bodies, all different heights and builds, all fitting together like puzzle pieces around his protagonist. The contrast of temperatures, textures, and the way hands learned new territories…
“Enough.”
Sam splashed cold water on his face, gasping at the shock. That was exactly the problem with writing romance. It bled into everything until he couldn’t tell fiction from reality anymore. Three attractive men showed him basic kindness, and suddenly he was imagining polyamorous domestic bliss like some kind of desperate…
His phone buzzed on the counter, and Sam’s heart stopped.
He picked it up with shaking hands and read the message.
Unknown Number: Are you interested in home insurance?
Sighing, Sam blocked the number and dried his face. He lived in the realworld, where the only people getting in touch were salesmen.
/~/~/~/~/
Basil had started acting strange again.
Sam noticed it Thursday evening when he came home from work. The cat sat rigid at the living room window, tail puffed to twice its normal size, staring at the empty street like something lurked there.
“What’s gotten into you?”
Basil didn’t even twitch. He just kept staring, pupils blown wide - not the lazy afternoon watch he usually did, but the alert, predator-tracking stance he used when the neighbor’s dog got too close to the garden.
Except there was no dog. Sam checked the window, and there was nothing but parked cars and the streetlamp flickering to life in the dusk. No raccoons, no stray cats, nothing that warranted the Halloween-cat posture Basil had adopted.
“There’s nothing there, you maniac.”
Basil’s ears flattened.
Friday night, it was the same thing. Sam found the cat perched on the kitchen windowsill, fur standing on end, making that low growl that usually meant serious business. The sound raised goosebumps on Sam’s arms - the kind of growl Basil usually reserved for actual threats, not shadows or rustling leaves.
“Basil, seriously. What…”
The cat bolted to the front window and pressed his face against the glass. His tail lashed with enough force to knock over the tiny plant on the sill.
Sam followed and peered out into the street. But all he could see was just the usual cars - Mrs. Patterson’s slightly rusted Volvo, the blue hatchback that belonged to the couple three doors down, a Range Rover that probably belonged to the new development on…
Wait. Sam squinted. Had that Range Rover been there yesterday? He couldn’t remember.
Basil growled again.
“It’s just a car,” Sam told him.
But Saturday brought more of the same. Basil abandoned his usual routine - demanding wet food, napping in sunbeams, knocking pens off Sam’s desk - to patrol the cottage windows like a furry security guard. He’d station himself at one window, stare for twenty minutes, then march to the next one. Living room. Kitchen. Bedroom. Bathroom. Repeat.
“You’re losing it,” Sam said, scratching behind Basil’s ears.
The cat pulled away and resumed his patrol.
