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Bishop nodded, retaining his place by the spare room as Molly forged onward, swinging the third door open to find her fluffy snowball of a cat waiting patiently on the other side.

She scooped him up and buried her face in his fur. He wore a brown leather collar she didn’t recognize.

“Oh, buddy, even you’re not quite the same, are you?” she whispered, fighting off a sudden sting of tears.

Bishop cleared his throat from somewhere behind her. He hadn’t entered the room. Instead, he leaned against the frame and watched her with worry lines creasing his forehead.

Arms crossed in front of him, sleeves rolled to the elbows, he looked as casual as one could in whatever expensive brand of dress shirt he wore. With a guilty twinge, Molly couldn’t help but acknowledge something compelling about that image. It seemed inappropriate, honestly, to be capable of looking like a luxury ad for fine men’s tailoring at a time like this. Even the fatigue hovering around him like an unfortunate aura did little to diminish the image.

He pulled something from his pocket and held it out to her. A cell phone. It took several blinks of confusion for her to realize it was probably hers.

“It’ll unlock with your face. Look at the screen for a second and it should open. But your passcode is 1–2–2–0, so that’ll work too.”

Molly slowly released Pawntès and took the phone. If there was a significance to her passcode, she didn’t know it. Looking down, she watched as it opened to the main screen.

Bishop crossed and uncrossed his arms, fidgeting as if engaged in a debate with himself.

“You’ll be mad at me,” he finally said, like it was meant to be news.

Molly rolled her eyes. “I usually am.”

He winced, and it inspired a faint, unwelcome sense of regret in the pit of Molly’s stomach.

“I spoke with your doctors. I had to show them some of our text messages to prove I’m not beating you, by the way.” His expression morphed briefly, as if the mere thought of hurting her made him sick. “They went over all your care instructions with me.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“I’m your emergency contact. And your primary caregiver. Of course it’s my business.”

“I don’t require a caregiver.”

“You require someone to help orient you in your own life. That is care being given. Would you like a dictionary definition as well, or will my word suffice?” Molly couldn’t parse his tone, something like pointed verbal sparring with a side of exasperation.

“God, you’re still as obnoxious as ever. Is that why I’ll be mad? Because I regret to inform you that’s old news. Much older than the last six years.”

His face screwed up again, mouth tight. “There was concern about not overwhelming you. That too much emotional distress could be problematic. And I know this is all a surprise, and I—you’ll be mad.”

“So you’ve said already.”

“I . . . curated some things in your phone.”

Molly blinked as his words barreled at her, collided, and then bounced right off: incomprehensible. “And by curate you mean . . .”

“Our phones have so much stuff in them these days. So much of your life you don’t remember, right there in the palm of your hand. And I didn’t want—”

She cut him off, incredulous. “Surely you aren’t implying what I think you’re implying.”

“I cleaned up your inbox a bit. Did some mailing list unsubscribing.” He paused, gaze darting around the room, fixing on several points before landing directly on Molly. “Deleted a few apps and contacts and conversations. And I archived most of your photos.”

“Are you kidding me right now, Bishop? You cannot possibly be serious.” Molly rarely shouted. She hated the loss of control that came with it, but her voice lifted regardless. “That’s some disgusting, controlling, manipulative—”

Bishop took a single step toward her before freezing. “I know, I know. I regretted it as soon as I’d done it. I know it’s no excuse, but I couldn’t stop imagining you going through your phone and collapsing again. I just—that’s why I’m telling you. I’m telling you now because I know I should. And I’m—” he broke off, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry.”

Not once in her entire life had Aster Bishop apologized for anything he’d done to her. Those two words left her stunned. She’d fantasized about him apologizing to her, imagined speeches that sometimes involved gratuitous groveling.

But not a single one of those fantasies satisfied her as much as the two simple words he’d just offered with defeat.

This new version of Bishop had much sadder eyes than the one she remembered. She didn’t care for the unwelcome prick of pity that fact inspired.