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Sir, please put the axe down and pick me up instead.

Why is this free?

My husband asked why I’ve watched this twelve times.

Worship has commenced.

Gives a whole new meaning to “morning wood.”

That last one started as a joke almost two years ago and somehow evolved into a recurring tag whenever I post a shirtless picture before noon.

I wipe my forearm across my forehead and immediately wonder whether Jubilee watches these. The thought comes so naturally, it irritates me. She works until four a.m., which means she’s almost certainly unconscious right now. She’ll see it later. Maybe she’ll roll her eyes. Maybe she’ll zoom in.

I grin despite myself and split another log.

I’ve never had difficulty focusing on my work. Killing people occasionally complicates the calendar. Professionally, I’m extraordinarily disciplined. I once spent nine consecutive days developing a pear tart because the first eight versions offended me.

Today, I keep thinking about Jubilee York. Her face. Her laugh. The way my chest reacted when she said she might be somewhere between like and love, too.

I set the axe aside and drag a hand over my beard. It isn’t just protectiveness. I can switch that on and off. Jubilee is…more than that. I want to know what makes her laugh before she can stop herself. What puts the walls back up. What she wanted to become before her life changed. I want to stand between her and anything that teaches her she has to disappear again.

Excessive, considering we’ve known each other a little over six weeks. Then again, we spent the night burying a body approximately thirty minutes after meeting, so traditional pacing was murdered before the relationship began.

I retrieve the camera. “Worship concluded, my dear idolaters. Please return to your regularly scheduled activities.” I blow a kiss toward the lens, because I’m a professional.

Muffin screams beyond the screen.

“Your feedback has been noted.”

The kitchen smells like browned butter, pumpkin, espresso, and the cinnamon-sugar cloud settling over half the room. Considerably better territory.

I’ve showered and changed into loose gray lounge pants. The shirt is optional because I’m filming, and I long ago accepted how a disturbing percentage of my income originates when my abdominal muscles are visible. Capitalism is…complicated.

Marzipan presides from a stool at the edge of the kitchen like a culinary judge with the personality of Gordon Ramsay. Tartlet sprawls on the windowsill behind her. Cannoli has abandoned dignity entirely and sleeps belly-up in a patch of sunlight. The others patrol the counters for any possible sign of treats.

“Today,” I tell the camera, “we’re doing brunch-inspired, autumn pastries. And for all my pumpkin-spice people, today I’m proving you’re not basic. Comment below: Team Apple, Team Pumpkin, or Team Both. And be nice. This isn’t Twilight.”

Marzipan blinks at me. “Thank you,” I tell her. “Your confidence in me is inspiring.”

First, pumpkin-caramel cruffins: laminated pastry baked into spiral towers with salted pumpkin-caramel centers, rolled through cinnamon sugar, and finished with pecan praline. When I tear one open for the camera, steam rises and the layers separate beautifully. “I would like it formally documented: this one has achieved enlightenment.”

Next comes the croffle situation: pumpkin-spiced croissant dough pressed in a waffle iron until the outside caramelizes—topped with maple mascarpone cream, roasted apples, candied walnuts, and a thin drizzle of bourbon-maple syrup.

Tartlet makes a noise from the windowsill.

“You’re underage.” She licks one paw. “Also a cat.”

Cue laugh emojis.

Then, an apple-cider funnel-cake hybrid, whose texture can only be described as miraculous. And, mostly for social media, a butterscotch espresso mug cake with pumpkin-spiced whipped cream. Subtlety has no place in September.

By the time I finish plating, the island looks like autumn developed diabetes. Perfect.

I set up the final overhead shot, lean one forearm against the counter, and grin. “Brunch is served. Go forth and apple and pumpkin-spice responsibly. And remember: adopt cats. The old gods are watching.” One last kiss. “See you tomorrow.”

The camera clicks off. Silence settles through the kitchen, and Jubilee rushes straight back into my head.

“Jesus Christ.” I rub the back of my neck. Marzipan stares. “I know. I’m aware this is pathetic.” Her tail flicks. “Thank you for your compassion.”