Page 232 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

“Yes.”

“Do you want to go inside?”

“Not yet.”

Max lowered himself between us with a sigh and set his head on Rafe’s shoe.

“He’s had a hard night,” I said.

“He accepted seven compliments and one piece of salmon.”

“Heroism takes many forms.”

Rafe looked out over the gardens, then back at me. “Are you happy?”

The question was quiet and careful. Very him.

I leaned against the stone rail, the locket warm beneath my fingers. “Yes.”

His shoulders eased.

That was what I loved most now, maybe. Not that he had become soft. He hadn’t. Rafe was still exacting, serious, frequently unbearable in rooms with poor planning, and capable of making a waiter apologize for someone else’s mistake through silence alone.

But with me, he let things reach him.

He no longer treated tenderness like an argument he had to win.

He stepped closer. “I have been considering something.”

“That sentence has historically preceded real estate, medical care, and soup.”

“This is related to real estate.”

“Rafe.”

“Not buying your building.”

“Look at you. Growth.”

His thumb moved once against my back. “A place. Eventually. When you want. Somewhere closer to your work and Avery, with enough room for Max, your books, Octavia’s scarves, my shirts, and any furniture you insist has a soul.”

I stared at him. He kept going. Rafe handled vulnerability the way some people handled contracts: thoroughly, before anyone could object.

“Not instead of your life. Not my estate swallowing yours. Something we choose together.”

“You’re asking if I want to live with you,” I said, my voice cracking a little.

“Yes.”

“Eventually.”

“Yes.”

I looked out over the gardens because if I looked at him too long, I was going to cry, then I’d have to lie and blame allergies because I was a professional now.

“Okay,” I said.

Rafe went very still. “Okay?”