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“Absolutely not.”

“If you hate it, you can fuck with my coffee tomorrow.”

My gaze snaps to his. “Define fuck with.”

“Whatever horrifying amount of hazelnut shit you want.”

“You’d drink it?”

His mouth twists. “If you hate the shake.”

That's a level of confidence I cannot allow. I take the bottle. The plastic is cold against my palm, condensation slick beneath my fingers. I sniff it first.

“Damn.” He laughs. “Just drink it.”

“Quiet. I’m evaluating.”

I take a cautious sip. Then another. Peanut butter. Banana. Cold, creamy, annoyingly… not bad.

Bishop’s grin starts before I’ve swallowed. I shove the bottle back at him. “It’s terrible.”

“Liar. You took a second sip.”

I glance down. His laugh follows me when I turn toward the sink.

“Black coffee survives another day.”

“Enjoy your victory while it lasts, Ken.”

That gets me a middle finger. Back to the safe zone.

Bishop checks the time on his phone. “What’d you do yesterday?”

The question is casual enough that I answer without thinking. “Looked at an apartment.”

His hand stills on the shaker, not much. Just enough that I notice. “And?”

“And the listing used the phrase ‘cozy vintage charm’ very creatively.”

“How creatively?”

“The hallway smelled like wet dog and somebody’s cabbage dinner. The radiator sounded like it was trying to escape the wall, and the bedroom window had bars.”

“Sounds charming.”

“The deadbolt worked.” I force a smile.

“Wow, really setting that bar high.”

“I’m trying to be realistic.”

“Okay, then let’s be realistic.” Bishop sets his shaker down. “Just stay here through the end of the month.”

I blink. “What?”

“Stay here until Halloween. Gives you three more weeks to find something that doesn’t smell like boiled vegetables and look like a crime scene.”

“Bishop—”