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"Yep."

"Against my clearly stated wishes."

"You said no renovating." He sets the pizza on my counter. "This is security."

"That's the exact distinction a serial killer would make."

The locksmith looks between us. "I can come back."

"No," Gage and I say together.

The poor man sighs and unrolls his drill. He's made a long series of bad choices to end up in my kitchen, and I respect the journey.

An hour later I own two new dead bolts, a set of things Gage calls strike plates, and the grim understanding that a six-and-a-half-foot man will simply do things to my house whether I agree or not. He pays the locksmith at the door. He waves off my glare like it's weather.

I also own a pizza. I flip the box open. Pepperoni.

I go still. "How did you know to order pepperoni?"

"You always order it."

"Have you been surveilling my pizza?"

"We live next door to each other."

"That's not a no."

He takes a slice and says nothing, which is a whole answer.

Sid appears on the chair between us. He didn't walk in. He's simply there, the way he's always simply there, gold eyes at half-mast, the little white crescent bright on his chest.

I tear off a shred of pepperoni.

"Don't," Gage says.

"You don't police my cat."

"He's not your cat."

"He lives here."

"He's been here two days."

"In cat years that's a mortgage."

Sid bats the pepperoni out of my fingers, eats it off the floor, and looks up at Gage like they've won something together.

"Body shaming a familiar," I say. "Shameful."

Gage goes rigid. The slice stops halfway to his mouth.

"Why'd you call him that?"

"A familiar? It's a witch joke. I run a shop full of ceramic ghosts, keep up."

He doesn't laugh. He looks at the cat. The cat looks back. They do that silent thing, two predators agreeing on something over my head.

Idiot.