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His side of the duplex has been almost completely silent, and every night I catch myself listening for the first few notes of his guitar and getting irritated when they don’t come.

The irony is obnoxious.

Nell appears in the office doorway and leans against the frame. “So, are we calling you boss now?”

“No.”

“Co-boss?”

“Also no.”

“Part-owner Ruby?”

“That sounds like a very boring superhero novel.”

“I’d read it.”

I smile and gather my copy of the paperwork. “You’re still not getting out of closing tonight.”

Her expression falls. “Power has changed you already.”

“Absolutely.”

She heads back toward the front, and I tuck the contract into my bag before heading out.

For the next hour, I stay busy on purpose. I answer two emails, confirm tomorrow’s appointments, look over an artist application we received last week, and make a note to ask about changing one of our supply vendors. It isn’t until I’m locking the front door that the excitement hits me all over again.

Part owner.

I want to tell Zander, and the impulse comes so naturally that for a second I forget we haven’t spoken since he walked out of my kitchen. I stand under the awning while a light mist gathers beyond the edge of the sidewalk and pull my coat tighter around me, already reaching for my phone before I stop myself.

He knows the paperwork was moving forward. He knows how much I wanted this, and if he wants to know how it went, he can ask. Even as I think it, I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m deciding I don’t need anything from him before he gets the chance to tell me he can’t give it, because that has always been easier than asking and finding out I was wrong.

I didn’t need anyone’s help moving north. I didn’t need company while I figured out a new town. I didn’t need someone checking whether I made it home safely after closing. I didn’t need a neighbor playing songs through the wall or bringing coffee over in the morning or memorizing which nights I usually worked late.

Then Zander started doing those things anyway.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped minding and started expecting them.

That’s the part I haven’t wanted to examine too closely.

I’ve spent the last few days thinking about everything Zander asked from me before I finally told him I couldn’t keep answering. The visits. The phone calls. Whether things would change. Whether I would still want him when he came home.

He was asking too much of me, and I still believe I was right to push back. But sitting in my car with the Black Fern contract beside me, I can admit there’s another side to it. I’ve spent a lot of time telling Zander what I don’t need from him. I don’t need him to stay, give up the tour, or rearrange his career around me. All of that is true.

What I haven’t done is tell him what I do need. I start the car and sit there while the windshield slowly clears, realizing that saying those things out loud feels a lot more dangerous than telling myself I can handle whatever happens without him.

The porch light on Zander’s side is off when I get home.

His truck isn’t there either.

I carry my bag inside, change out of my work clothes, and make myself dinner. The entire time, I’m aware of the wall without consciously listening to it.

It stays quiet.

By eight, I’m curled into the corner of my couch with my laptop open, pretending to read through tomorrow’s schedule while rereading the same appointment notes three times.

A knock sounds at the front door, and I know it’s him before I get up.