Page 86 of What We Become

“Oh. Sexy.”

I pull it free and flip to a random page. A character named X is trying to present his love interest with a pet duck. I find myself chuckling, because X sounds cool. I think we could be friends.

“Maybe we should get kitten a duck?”

“We are not getting Sage a duck,” Holden snaps.

“Okay. Fine.” I close the book before I get any more ideas.

Sliding X’s and O’s back into its slot, I continue browsing the shelves until I come upon a blue spine with black writing, a love heart, and a skull image.

“Oh, I love skulls,” I breathe, already pulling it free. The cover is simple—black with an illustration of a blue skull and what I think are blurred flowers around the edges.

“Okay. Cute skull with a love heart for an eyeball. Interesting.”

I flip the book over and read the blurb. Something about thirst traps and darkness. I’m on the fence, so I flip open the cover and go straight for the menu—the content warning page. On there, it lists a whole bunch of shit I’m here for. Stalking, invasion of privacy, hacking, hidden cameras . . . and a lot of other things ending in the word play which are all wonderfully sexy kinks that I definitely want to read about.

“This is the one.”

I tuck the book under my arm and head over to Holden.

“What’d you choose?” he asks, and his voice carries a note like he’s pretending not to be interested while absolutely being interested.

“Professional development,” I say, showing him the cover. “See? It’s a stalking rom-com. Very on-brand. Very me.”

He studies it, the wrinkle between his eyebrows appearing.

“Stalking,” he says flatly.

“Romantic stalking,” I correct. “Which is apparently a genre now. The line between felony and foreplay is really just marketing.”

“You don’t need inspiration.”

“I need entertainment, Holden.” I gesture at the security monitor with my free hand. “You’re watching empty cameras. I’m reading about fictional men who watch fictional women. We’re both staring at something waiting for stuff to happen. At least mine has a plot.”

He turns back to the monitor, but I catch the edge of his mouth twitching. Not quite a smile. The precursor to one, held back by sheer force of will.

“I’m taking this upstairs,” I announce, already moving toward the stairs. “Don’t wait up. I might need to finish it in one sitting. For research purposes.”

“For research,” he repeats, deadpan.

I pause and turn back to him. “Unless you want to join me? We could read it together. I do voices.”

“Goodnight, Milo.”

“Your loss. I do excellent villain voices.”

I make it three steps toward the stairs before something catches my eye—movement on the windowsill, a flash of orange darting through the water of Frank’s bowl. The little goldfish is at the surface, mouth working open and closed like he’s trying to tell me something urgent, probably about the service in this establishment.

“Hold on.” I backtrack to the kitchen counter, leaning close enough that my breath fogs the glass. Frank bubbles enthusiastically, his fins fanning the water. “When was the last time someone fed you, buddy?”

Holden glances toward the bowl. “You fed him this morning.”

“That was hours ago. He has the metabolism of an elite athlete trapped in the body of a carnival prize.”

I set the paperback on the counter and look into the food container. It’s almost empty—just a scattering of dusty flakes at the bottom, not even enough to coat the surface tension. Frank bumps his nose against the glass like I’m personally insulting him.

“Okay, okay. Emergency rations.”