Page 8 of Until We Come Home

The mouse darts along the baseboard, and I gasp and point.

“There! Right there, he’s moving!” I yell, offering helpful commentary from the safety of the mattress while Mateo pounces, dropping the container over the little guy right as it scurries for the gap under the closet door.

"Oh my God," Mateo laughs, looking up at me from the floor.

I dissolve into helpless laughter. First a deafening fire alarm, now a sudden rodent intrusion—it feels as though the cosmos is cockblocking us tonight. I collapse back onto the mattress, wiping tears from my eyes.

“Alright,” I say, catching my breath. “Shall we set him free?”

“Yeah.” He slides the paper room service menu underneath to secure the bottom before lifting. "Let's take him out by the garden hedge behind the patio. Plenty of cover for him out there."

I pull on actual clothes this time, cutoff shorts, a tee, and my sandals, not willing to push my luck twice in one night wandering the inn nearly naked. We slip downstairs and out into the Napa air, the night still warm, filled with the hum of crickets and the faint scent of woodsmoke on the breeze.

The garden is lit by soft string lights hanging from the trellises, giving way to the dark rows of the vineyard beyond the fence. At the edge of the lawn, Mateo crouches down, tilts the bucket, and lets the mouse scramble out.

“Aww, look at him go,” I say as the mouse pauses for a split second before vanishing into a patch of lavender. “Good luck out there, buddy. Sorry for screaming at you.”

“Hey, you alerted us to the situation,” Mateo says, still crouching in the grass. “And now he’s safe. So it all worked out.”

"Fast reflexes, I'll give you that," I say. "Turns out you're a natural rodent whisperer."

“I actually had a pet rat when I was ten, so I’ve got a bit of a soft spot for them,” he says. “They’re really great pets.”

“A pet rat?” I arch an eyebrow at him. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a rodent guy. What was his name?”

"Montecristo. Monty for short." He stands up and dusts off his knees. "I was obsessed with The Count of Monte Cristo back then. Monty was a good one, though. Lived to a respectable old age for a rat. They're very smart and affectionate. People give them a bad rap."

"Like the whole bubonic plague history?" I ask.

He laughs. "Hey, that was the fleas. I won't stand for the slander."

"Fire safety and rat advocacy," I say, nudging his arm. "You're a man of many passions. Any other secret causes I should know about?"

"Those pretty much cover it," he says, grinning. "Though I do fall down podcast rabbit holes, so there's usually some random new obsession coming."

"Well, you're full of surprises," I say. "I think I'll call you the rat whisperer."

“God damn it.” He rolls his eyes, laughing. "Somehow worse than the last one."

"It's sweet," I tell him, and he smiles down at me. The laughter fades between us, leaving a question hanging in the air.

Where do we go from here?

Faint voices drift around the side of the building, and we both turn toward them. Sounds like a few of the Midnights heading back from the restaurant, Jack's distinct laugh carrying over the quiet courtyard alongside Calvin's deeper tone.

We look at each other, the moment passing as easily as it came. The spell is officially broken.

Mateo shrugs, a wry little smile on his lips. "Well. Guess the stars weren't aligning for us tonight."

I laugh. "I think the universe was practically screaming at us to stop."

"Next up would've been a piano falling out of the sky," he says.

"Or a sudden plague of locusts," I say.

He tips his head, considering. "A sinkhole opening up under the bed."

"A lightning strike indoors," I say, and that gets him.