Page 97 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

Too tired to continue the banter, Quinn only hummed. She turned her face toward the window again, and the city light moved over her cheek, catching the gold of one earring. The whole night seemed to narrow to the interior of the quiet vehicle, the faint scent of her perfume, and the knowledge that if I reached across the space between us, she might let me.

I didn’t move.

The driver pulled up outside her building a few minutes later.

The entrance looked no better at night. The weak lobby light glowed through the scratched glass. The buzzer panel sat uselessly beside the door. Trash bags had been added to the curb since I’d left, and a delivery bike leaned against the railing at an angle that suggested either haste or resignation.

I opened my door before the driver could come around.

Quinn gathered her skirt and woke Max with a touch. “Come on, Senator. Your public awaits.”

Max rose slowly, shook once, and looked offended by gravity.

I walked around and helped Quinn out of the car, offering my hand. She took it. The contact lasted only as long as it needed to.

“Thank you,” she said when both feet were on the sidewalk.

“You’re welcome.”

Max stepped down after her, tie crooked again but dignity intact. We walked to the building together. I told myself I was only seeing her to the door because that was the appropriate thing to do. It was late. She was tired. The neighborhood wasn’t silent. Also, the building’s front door didn’t latch, and I hadn’t forgotten it.

I tried the handle.

It opened immediately.

Quinn sighed. “Please don’t look at my door like you’re about to reprimand it.”

“It doesn’t latch.”

“I know.”

“That’s unacceptable.”

“Welcome to New York real estate. The city motto is ‘That is unacceptable, and rent is due.’”

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“Quinn, it’s unsafe.”

Her smile thinned, but not in anger. More in weariness. “It is. And I’ve told management. So has Mrs. Nguyen on two. And Mr. Patel on four, but he wrote his letter in all caps, so I think they filed it spiritually rather than administratively.”

I looked at the door again. The lock plate was misaligned. The repair was minor. Insultingly minor.

“I could⁠—”

“No,” she said.

She hadn’t raised her voice. She didn’t need to.

After a moment, I said, “I hadn’t finished my sentence.”

“Rafe.”

I looked at her.

The streetlight caught the tiredness in her face, but also the amusement. She wasn’t scolding me. Not entirely. She was standing in front of a broken building door in a thrifted designer dress, holding the leash of an elderly retired military dog, and still somehow making room for my attempt to learn restraint.