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“What … Eloise … hi! You’re awake!” he says enthusiastically, his dimples popping as he smiles at me.

I am suddenly, deeply aware of the fact that I’m not wearing a bra.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, standing and trying to smooth down his hair, which only makes it more ruffled and infuriatingly adorable. “Can I get you anything?”

That’s it. I’ve hit my limit.

“What are you doing here?” I shout, not caring if I’m being weird. “You aren’t supposed to—this is my home, how did you—Rachel should never have …” I trail off, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. Stupid tears slip from under my lids. I don’t know why I seem to cry at any and every emotion. “I’m tired and I’m hungry and I stink and I don’t know you,” I continue. “And I don’t like people in my space and the Pack—” My head whips up as I remember what I just saw. “How did you do it?” I demand. “How did you get Pip to sleep on you like that? Tell me!”

I step forward, pointing a finger at him, my eyes wild, fully aware I must look like a crazy person. Agustín opens his mouth then closes it. He seems to consider for a moment.

“He likes Spanish,” he says simply.

I blink. “Huh?”

“Pip. I think he likes hearing Spanish. It’s … I don’t know, it calms him. So I was talking to him a lot yesterday.”

Charleston has started licking my leg. I glance down at him and my throat tightens. “Did you put him in a diaper?”

Agustín nods. “There was poop, you see. And pee. Miriam said he needs diapers. I found them in the bathroom. You are very good at organizing.”

I force myself to repress the image of Agustín poking around under my bathroom sink, among my tampons and home waxing kit.

“I didn’t know about the medicines, though,” he admits. “Is one of the dogs, um, how do you say it … diabetic?”

“Yeah,” I say, my anger quickly deflating. “The Colonel.”

Agustín chuckles. It’s a low, pleasant sound that resonates in my own chest. “I like their names. Can you explain me—sorry, explain to me how you came up with them?”

“The Colonel is a character from 101 Dalmatians.” The reason seems to fall out of my mouth on its own accord.

His warm eyes brighten and somehow his smile gets even wider. “Ah! La Noche de las Narices Frias!”

“Huh?”

“That’s what it’s called in Mexico. The Night of the Frozen Noses. My nieces love that movie.”

All the fight goes out of me, and I feel myself sag. I’m too confused and tired to argue with him anymore.

“How about this,” Agustín says quietly. “You take a shower, and I’ll heat some broth and make tea. I got saltines too. Miriam’s orders. And then, if you still want me to leave, I’ll leave. Deal?”

I nod because honestly, broth sounds amazing. And I can feel the fever sweat still clinging to my skin and my mouth tastes awful. I really, really, really want a shower. And a minute alone.

Charleston follows me into the bathroom and curls up on the bathmat as I strip off my clothes and turn on the shower. It is very weird to be naked in my apartment with a man here. I can’t remember the last time that happened. Probably not since college, which is its own depressing sort of thought. I push it away and step under the hot flow of water, determined to have the fastest shower in the history of ever. But once I let the steam relax my muscles, I find I don’t want to get out. It feels achingly good. For one moment, my anxiety doesn’t pulse in my ears or pound in my chest. I can pretend Agustín isn’t here. Just the sound of water and Charleston’s occasional snorts. When I finally pull back the curtain, I wrap a towel around me and step out of the tub, and Charleston goes back to licking my leg. He loves being in the bathroom when I shower. I wrap another towel around my hair and brush my teeth. Twice.

The Wheel starts spinning now that I’ve lost the soothing thrum of hot water. I stare at the back of the bathroom door, fingertips tingling, my skin tight. Agustín is out there.

I crack the door and peer out. I wait. I can hear him in the kitchen, the sound of the faucet turning on and off, of mugs clinking. He’s humming some song I don’t recognize. The sound sends prickles across my thighs. In a panicked flash, I dart across the hall into my bedroom and slam the door. I sink onto my bed, adrenaline making me dizzy. My heart has swollen to twice its normal size and careens against my ribcage. I really need some food. I get up and open my closet door, staring into it blankly. I have no idea what to wear, and my stomach is making horrible growling sounds. I rub my eyes and remind myself I’m not trying to impress Agustín. I’m trying to get him out of my house. I just need a bra.

I end up choosing a black tank top over a soft cotton sports bra and a pair of rainbow-patterned sweatpants. I’m still feeling weirdly hot and cold at the same time, though I can tell the fever is pretty much gone. I grab the bottle of Tylenol then creep out into the living room. I don’t know why I’m still creeping around. He knows I’m here. He’s literally making me tea. The Colonel gets to his feet and pads over to greet me. As soon as I sink my fingers into his soft, thick fur, I relax a fraction. He whines and licks my wrist.

“They were worried about you.”

I jump. Agustín stands in the middle of the hall, a steaming mug of tea in each hand. He walks forward and sets them on the coffee table, on the funky vintage coasters I got on a trip upstate to Beacon with Rachel.

The man uses coasters.

“Madame Boularès gave me this tea,” he says. “I haven’t tried it yet. But it smells very good.”