Page 122 of Just One Little Bargain

“Yes.” I reach for a piece of his pizza because fair is fair. “I wish there was a fascinating origin story, but there isn’t. I just came wired for systems. Give me any space and I’ll organize it. Hand me any task and I’ll build a process around it.”

“Even when you were young?”

“Especially then. I used to label everything in our kitchen. My mom thought it was hilarious.” I smile at the memory.

“And cooking?”

“That’s the best version of it. A recipe is a promise. You do these steps, in this order, with these measurements, and the outcome is guaranteed.”

“It’s a certainty.”

“And then you get to give the result to someone and watch them enjoy it. Double payoff.” I shrug one shoulder. “Daisy says it’s my love language—planning and feeding people, making their world a little easier. I don’t really argue with that anymore.”

Milo sets his pizza down and turns to face me. It hits me that this is the first conversation we’ve had where I’ve talked about myself without deflecting into sarcasm. He never pushed for it. He just waited until I got here on my own.

“Your turn,” I say. “What was your childhood like?”

Some of the warmth leaves his expression. “My upbringing was structured. Everything oriented around training. My father teaching me negotiation tactics, contract language, the psychology of mortal desire.”

“That sounds bleak.”

“It was.”

“All of it was like that?”

“Not all of it. My parents used to argue.”

“A strange way to begin a happy memory.”

He chuckles. “Not violently, but intellectually. My father would bring home cases, contracts he was working, and talk through them at dinner. There was a designated hour when my parents would sit together and discuss strategy.”

“And that was good?”

“Once.” His voice lowers. “I was young. Small enough to sit between them without being noticed. My father was explaining a particularly complex contract: the loopholes, the ways humans try to outmaneuver the language. And my mother said something that cut through his entire argument, and he . . .”

His jaw works once before he continues.

“He laughed. He looked at her with something that might have been admiration. She answered with what could have been affection. I was sitting between them, and for one minute, maybe less, I belonged somewhere.” He smiles at me, embarrassed. “Small memory, but I’ve kept it.”

My hand finds his wrist and squeezes. “It doesn’t sound small.”

His smile fades, and I reach for a distraction.

“Come on. I promised you cookies.”

The batter doesn’t require much instruction. I’ve done this a thousand times, and muscle memory takes over. When I hand him the spatula to fold in the chocolate chips, his fingers brush mine.

Milo looks at me across the bowl, and neither of us has quite shaken off what we just told each other. I don’t want to give him another memory that ends with someone pulling away.

I set the vanilla down. My palm slides into his curls, and I fit two fingers around the narrow curve of his horn, drawing him toward me with steady pressure.

The spatula drops from his hand. Milo catches himself, his nails lengthening into claws and scoring pale lines into the wood. His other hand closes over mine. Instead of loosening my grip, he drags it down the horn until my palm cups the heavier curve and every ridge presses into my skin.

“Evie.”

“Like this?”

His forehead lowers until the horn rests fully in my hand. His breath spills hot across my mouth as he presses deeper into my palm. “More.”