The next morning, Nash woke up in his own bed in his own apartment in his own neighborhood after a shitty night’s sleep mostly spent glaring at his ceiling and wondering why in the hell the silence here was so much louder than at Chelle’s place, where there was always a dog barking or snoring or panting after having the zoomies. He made a pot of coffee and realized after he’d already hit start that he only needed a single cup. It was the same story with the too many eggs he’d scrambled and the extra bacon he’d cooked and the fact that after breakfast he went to his cookie jar, looking for the dog food that had never, ever been there.

But that had been where Chelle had kept the kibble at her place.

He just stood there staring at the neatly organized shelves arranged according to meal, not something ridiculous like color, like Chelle’s bookshelves, for God knew how long until someone started pounding on his door. Since he lived in the penthouse with a private elevator someone needed a key to operate, he knew who was at the door before he even opened it and found his sister on the other side.

“I got your text,” Bristol said as she walked in, worry forming a V on her forehead as she looked him up and down. “What happened?”

He’d texted last night to let her know that he had moved back into his own place. It wasn’t because he wanted sympathy or—God forbid—to talk about what happened with his little sister, but because he needed to make sure she knew where to find him if something came up. The last thing he wanted was for her not to be able to reach him if she needed his help.

He started back toward the kitchen. “It’s not worth talking about.”

“Translation,” she said, following him. “It very much is.”

“Do you want some eggs?” When his sister shook her head, he turned on the kitchen faucet and started washing the skillet, scrubbing it until it practically gleamed. “Chelle’s writing a fantasy series about these woodland nymph assassins and the satyrs that are their mortal enemies and lovers.” There was no way that they should be forgotten about in some folder on her laptop. Even the idea of it was wrong on so many levels. The books didn’t just have potential like the Door Dash guy’s customized sneakers. They were exactly the kind of stories that stuck with people like peanut butter on a spoon. “They’re really fucking good, so I shared the first one with Macon and he told an editor about it and they want to make a big-ass offer on it.”

“That’s amazing,” Bristol said as she poured herself a cup of coffee.

Finally! Someone got it.