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A doorway opens up to the living room and I freeze, spinning to him with raised brows. He averts his gaze, his palm working the nape of his neck.

I gape back to the monstrosity before us, and absentmindedly pass him the berries while taking it all in. He follows me as I’m lured in with curiosity. The entire space has been taken over—swaths of canvas drop cloths hang draped around the room. Did he nail them to the walls? It’s a little uneven and chaotic.

My brows furrow. “Are you painting?” I ask. It doesn’t smell like paint.

“No.”

“Oh . . .”

The rough fabric overlaps to create some kind of structure. My head tilts to the side; it resembles an abstract circus tent. My lips part as I take in the monstrosity.

I spin around, tossing my thumb over my shoulder at the bed he’s made. “Is that your mattress?”

He nods and I turn back slowly.

“Casper, is this a blanket fort?”

The heavy panel shifts slightly as I push it aside and duck underneath. I flop onto the makeshift bed with a bounce, the blankets puffing up around me as I sink into the bedding. It’s the fort of all forts.

“Cozy,” I say, snuggling in and crossing my hands behind my head. It’s sweet and very . . . him.

“Good?”

“Yes. This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“I thought we could have a floor picnic,” he says.

There was an empty corner of his kitchen where seating would normally go.

“Because you don’t have a table,” I comment.

“I could get one.”

“I know.” I smile. My eyes drop to the berries he’s still holding, and I bolt upright. “Oh! Those are for Debra. Is she . . . is she outside?”

He chuckles. “Probably.”

Casper helps me to my feet and leads me around the tent, past the simple couch pushed up against the wall. I note the way he moves through the space, almost as if he hasn’t quite decided if he’s allowed to exist here fully. My chest tightens for him. He’s not like this at my house.

He flips the switch next to the back door, turning on the outdoor light. The door creaks when he opens it, letting in a wash of cool air that smells like damp earth and late fall. I follow him out to the porch and look around; I’m not quite sure what I’m looking for other than a possum.

Casper cups his hands around his mouth slightly and calls out into the inky shadows. “Deb.”

Silence.

I squint into the yard as if the creature is just going to materialize immediately. It’s too fucking dark to see anything.

“Deb!” He calls again, sharper like she’s late for a meeting.

I lean toward him, lowering my voice. “If something runs at me, I will react poorly,” I whisper.

He chuckles. “You’ll be fine.”

A rustling sound comes from somewhere near the fence and I release an excited gasp. “Was that her?” I step closer to his side. “I saw movement.”

“Yeah, it’s Deb,” he says, as if a possum trained to come when she’s called is a common occurrence.

A little pointy-nosed gray critter stumbles out of a leaf pile and I stare amazed; she’s actually . . . adorable.