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He and Charles would be a family again. Everything would be better.

“I’m back!” a bright voice sang out. Grayson and Charles turned to see Lucy entering through the door, hair windswept, cheeks and nose pink. Woolen mittens covered her hands, which carried a box.

She bounced—literally bounced—over to Charles’s side, and Grayson moved out of her way. She hardly noticed; she sat down and, absurdly pleased with herself, opened the box to reveal the heavenly smell of baked goods. The room felt warmer almost instantly.

He had the thought that she might have cast a spell, but distantly, he knew she hadn’t. His chest tightened. The only spell here was her.

“Oh, yes,” Charles said, sitting up. Grayson narrowed his eyes.

“Should you be eating that?” he asked, tone stern.

He might as well have kicked a toddler in front of them with the way the room fell silent. Lucy turned slowly to glare at him, eyebrows scrunched, mouth open no doubt to yell at him. Grayson shifted his glance to Charles, whose hand had paused midair with a pumpkin scone.

“Never mind,” Grayson grumbled. He didn’t wish to be the bad copper to Lucy’s good; that certainly wouldn’t help things.

But why was Lucy here at all? He wanted her to go away.

“Good boy,” Charles said, smiling. Childish pleasure spread through him. He nodded, and the warmth reentered the room as Lucy began chatting with Charles, the pair thick as thieves as they discussed people and circumstances he didn’t know about.

Grayson sat to the side, unsure how to proceed. Feeling awkward, he took out his phone, pretending to browse some important emails, but really, he was listening in on their conversation, aching to participate but not knowing how.

Even more, he didn’t wish to intrude. If he stayed quiet and didn’t interfere, he was still able to listen in, like he was catching the music of a party from outside the bar, still enjoying it even if the effect was dulled. But if he forced his way in, the music might stop entirely, and he’d be alone in the silence.

Finally, an hour later, a nurse came in to inform Charles that he should rest if he wished to be discharged the next day.

“Right,” Grayson said, standing. “Off we go, then.”

He stepped forward and offered his hand to Charles, ignoring Lucy’s unflattering—and frankly, unladylike—snort and the amusement that sparked in Charles’s eyes. After shaking hands, Grayson stepped to the side, waiting for Lucy to say goodbye. He hadn’t realized what a production it would be.

“Okay, I guess I have to leave, but don’t worry! I’ll see you soon!” Lucy hugged Charles, kissing his cheek. “Tomorrow is just a few hours away! Make sure you get lots of rest and listen to what all the nurses say,” she said, the words spilling out of her as she put on her coat and grabbed her purse.

Grayson headed for the door, and she followed, though she continued speaking the whole way. “And don’t exert yourself! Oh, and think of things you want me to bake! I have apples and pumpkins and molasses, so anything with those. Do you remember the molasses cakes I made last year? Do you think it’s still too early for that?”

“I think November is a perfect time for molasses cakes,” Charles replied.

“Isn’t it? I saw one of my friends having them in October, and I had to tell her she was making a huge mistake. October is obviously for pumpkins, not molasses!” Lucy said, continuing the conversation with Charles for another ten minutes as she attempted to exit the room while Grayson stood by the door, waiting.

Finally, she said goodbye for the twelfth time, though this time she meant it, for she did, in fact, leave the room, blowing kisses as Grayson closed the door behind her.

Good grief. Grayson found it both irritating and fascinating. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

Then, the second they left Charles’s room, she immediately stopped talking, like a switch turned off. A little bit of Grayson’s heart deflated. He’d found himself hoping she might continue the momentum and speak with him, but she wasn’t interested in the slightest.

At the very least, they hadn’t argued.

On the drive back, her eyes were wide open and glued to the window as if she’d never seen colorful autumn trees before, the expanse of red and orange and yellow leaving her awestruck. She lifted her hand and touched the window. He saw fog outline her fingers on the cool glass and imagined it was his face she touched, how his coldness might melt away from her warmth.

He shook his head at the thought, which was ridiculous and impractical. At a red light, she opened her window and took a deep breath of the frigid air. He shivered, though it wasn’t from the chill.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asked, the first words he’d spoken to her since they’d left. His voice was gentle; he didn’t want to remind her he was there, in case she shut off, the way she had after explaining book-magic to him.

“But it’s so delicious,” she replied with a smile, enjoying herself.

“What is?”

“The air, silly.”

She arched her back and stuck her head out the window, hair spilling in every direction, neck extended. Her chest rose as she took a deep breath, closing her eyes in bliss. He looked at her throat. Imagined pressing his lips just beneath her jaw.