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I had cycled through—and discarded—dozens of ideas, from a vintage luxury watch (too corporate) to front-row concert tickets (fun, but lacking the intimacy this occasion demands). Every idea I landed on felt either too safe or not nearly enough. It took me an unhealthy amount of late-night pacing, and one desperate, off-the-record conversation with Anna to nail it.

Jo and Anna have been friends so long that they gave up on gifting years ago, opting instead for a relentless campaign of mutual harassment. For Anna’s last birthday, Jo presented her with a custom enamel pin that read, World’s Okayest Enabler. Anna retaliated with a throw pillow featuring an unflattering, screen-printed photo of Jo mid-sneeze.

Anna was useless on the romantic front, but as I sat at my kitchen island listening to her cheerfully debate ridiculous ideas, the answer clicked. Jo loves painting. Whenever the pressure at work builds too high, she disappears into sweeping abstracts, pulling mesmerizing blends of color from the canvas until the world makes sense again. I already had two of her pieces custom-framed and hanging in my home office.

But since Jo moved in, I’ve noticed a quiet, frustrating restraint in how she handles her art. I’ve done everything in my power to make this apartment ours, yet she still packs her brushes away too quickly. She tucks her drop cloths out of sight, careful never to let her vibrant mess bleed into my structured world.

That was going to stop.

For the past weeks, I had been secretly ordering easels, premium canvases, and imported oil paints, stashing the boxes wherever I could find space. The grand master plan involved revealing the supplies one by one tonight and transforming half of my home office into her personal art studio. I envisioned us drinking wine while arranging the space together.

Technically, orchestrating a partial room renovation brushed dangerously close to “planning,” which I had promised not to do. But acquiring physical gifts and assigning them designated locations was not event planning. It was a loophole, but I felt confident in my ability to defend the distinction.

Clearly, that quiet domestic evening will have to wait until I locate my runaway partner. I trace the wax seal on the envelope, a reluctant laugh escaping me. She played me beautifully. I slide my thumb under the flap and crack the wax. I pull the card out, bracing myself as my eyes scan Jo’s confident, looping script.

Good girl!

A flush of heat spreads across my chest, travels through my stomach, and lands between my legs. Even on paper, she manages to sound like she’s standing behind me, mouth whispering in my ear.

Now, go ahead and make yourself a coffee. You’re going to need the energy boost. Hunting is thirsty work.

Your next clue is waiting in the velvet satchel on the coffee table.

I was in the living room minutes ago. How on earth did I miss a velvet satchel sitting in plain sight on the coffee table? I set the note down, my hands moving through muscle memory as I reach for the portafilter and the grinder.

She wants me energized? Fine. But to be absolutely clear: I am not making this coffee because she commanded me to. I am making it because it is my kitchen, my espresso machine, and my established morning routine. The fact that her instructions happen to align with my immediate physical desires is merely a coincidence.

Good girl.

The words echo in my head, undermining my defiant internal monologue.

The earthy smell of roasted beans fills the air as I count the seconds, watching the perfect amber crema settle into the cup. I sip, letting the bitter, rich heat steady my nerves.

Chapter Three

I carry my coffee into the living room, the rich aroma swirling around me, and sink onto the plush rug next to the coffee table. I set my cup down on a coaster and let my eyes sweep the surface. I hadn’t seen a satchel earlier, but as I look closer, I notice it tucked between a stack of magazines and a ceramic decorative bowl. I loosen the drawstrings and upend the bag over the tabletop.

Clatter, clatter, clatter.

A pile of thick cardboard pieces tumbles out, scattering across the surface. I stare at them for a second before an unrestrained laugh bubbles up from my chest.

A puzzle.

It’s one of our most fiercely protected domestic habits. It is, after all, exactly what we were doing when we ended up proposing to each other. Most weekends, you’ll find the two of us hunched over this exact table, a bottle of wine between us, arguing over edge pieces and color gradients of some massive two-thousand-piece landscape.

Tracking down unusually cut or intricate puzzles is a hobby in its own right now, resulting in a perpetually growing backlog. Just last month, I had to concede defeat and reorganize the bookshelves, sacrificing perfectly good romance space to accommodate the towering stack of boxes.

The small pile sitting in front of me now, however, is a sharp departure from our usual marathons. It’s clearly a custom miniature job—no more than a hundred pieces.

I shake my head, wondering what else she has plotted for today. How many more traps has she set between me and whatever waiting place she’s chosen?

With the next clue locked inside this jigsaw, the VP in me immediately looks for the most efficient path to the objective. Optimize the workflow, I think, sifting through the scattered pieces, half-hoping for printed words—some smug message I can put together and read the clue without building the background.

I flip the last piece over.

Nothing. Not a single letter.

“Damn it, Jo,” I murmur, taking a satisfied sip of my coffee. If I want the clue, I have to do the work.