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“Don’t tease me.” He bounces his eyebrows. “It’s big, isn’t it?”

“Maybe . . .”

“That’s it. Let’s go.” He turns, gesturing for me to jump on his back.

I hop up, wrapping my arms around his neck. “My place?” I suggest.

“Yeah.” He grips under my thighs, hoisting me up higher. “You’re going to show me that huge throbbing flag of yours.”

I’ve spent so much time holding everything together, controlling every piece of my life so nothing slips. My adult life hasn’t ever looked like . . . this. It’s never been easy, or light, or filled with small moments that bring spontaneous laughter and smiles. But with Casper—he makes everything so simple. Together, we have more fun than I know what to do with.

I don’t know how much time I have left with him before he leaves . . . I just know I want a little more of it.

“It’s pretty late. Any chance you want to just crash here?” Anna asks, unlocking her front door.

“Sleep here?”

“Yeah, not in the chair, you’re been upgraded to the bed,” she adds with a wink, dropping her keys on the small table near the door.

“Oh, the bed!” I pretend to be amazed. “Hey, do you work tomorrow?”

“Actually, we always get the day after the Harvest Festival off, and since it landed on a Friday this year, I have a three-day weekend.”

I bend down to untie my boots. “Well, what do you know, I’m off tomorrow too.” The shop is closed on Mondays and Tuesdays. “Mind if I use your shower?”

“Go nuts. Towels are on the shelf,” she says, yawning.

I don’t know if she’s up for fun tonight, but I need to clean up before that happens. As soon as I step under the hot spray, I exhale. The water hits my shoulders and I stand with my head tipped forward, letting it roll off me.

Anna’s complicated. Like a puppy who’s been kicked too many times and is learning to trust. She keeps everything in her life sectioned off, labeled, and locked up tight. She decides what people get access to and what they don’t, and rarely do the two mix. She’s good at keeping those doors closed.

Good thing I know how to pick locks.

Anna’s worth every bit of extra coaxing, because when she lets her guard down, she’s fucking perfect. She laughs freely, makes jokes, welcomes my touch, invites me into her space, and opens her heart.

The steam carries the scent of her shampoo when I lather it into my hair, the delicate aroma enveloping me and making me feel oddly safe. Like everything is where it belongs and I can let my guard down too. My thoughts can settle when I’m with her. Something about the tidy space, and all the softness she brings—fuck, maybe I’m in my soft era too. Even the rattle of old pipes and creaks of floorboards is comforting.

I don’t get invested like this. I don’t stand in someone else’s shower thinking about how they keep parts of themselves locked away and wondering how long it’s going to take before they let me see all of them.

But here I am—and the strangest part is that it doesn’t even feel that strange.

I grab a towel from the perfectly stocked shelf. Each bath towel is folded flawlessly, edges lined up as if she measured them. Same size, same direction, and fluffy—actually fluffy—like they haven’t been worn down by a hundred washes and neglect.

These are things I’ve never considered. Towels are towels, you use what’s there, and you move on. But not Anna. She cares for her possessions, arranges them with thought and purpose.

Growing up, everything I owned fit into one black garbage bag. If it didn’t fit, it didn’t come with. There was no special space carved out just for me; everything was shared, and you took what you needed before someone else got it. Shit, I’m two years into my house and I still haven’t fully unpacked. I have to feel ready for whatever life is going to throw my way.

Not Anna. She has a little tray by the sink—soap, lotion, some kind of serum that smells like eucalyptus. I chuckle to myself; even her belongings feel like they belong.

However, the more I get to know her, the more I understand why. It’s not about being neat, or having a compulsion to stay organized. It’s about holding on to something and making it hers. Building a cozy life that—if I had to guess—didn’t always feel that way.

I drag the towel over my hair, then wrap it around my waist, pulling the door open and stepping back into her bedroom. The cool air has goose bumps rising across my flesh. My eyes catch on the bed and I stop. She’s out cold in a baggy shirt and underwear, sprawled out, one hand beneath the covers like she started to crawl under and gave up halfway. At least she managed to clear off the pillows first.

I lean against the doorframe for a second, admiring her. Between how much she’s been working at the club and Kucera Housing, coordinating the Harvest Festival, and whatever else she’s been dealing with, it doesn’t surprise me that she’s fallen asleep.

Her shoes have been kicked off, and I pick them up, placing them with the others in her closet. Her sweatshirt hangs halfway out of her laundry hamper and I tuck it all the way in. I put away her things how I imagine she normally would.

I grab the edge of the blanket and help her under; she murmurs something under her breath but doesn’t wake. From the other room her phone chimes and I find it next to her keys on the small entryway table; a notification on the screen looks like a text from Rhys offering her game tickets. I carry it into the bedroom, placing it on the wireless charger.