The laugh he’d been hoping for came, but it was thin. It didn't reach her eyes. And the comment about the leather pants—usually the kind of banter he could volley back and forth for twenty minutes—fell dead in the water between them.

I don’t need to be your muse. I just… want to be real with you.

The word hung there in the steam, heavier than the snow piling up on the railing. Real.
Ben felt the smile slide off his face. It wasn't a gradual fade; it was a sudden, physical drop, like a mask slipping because the string finally snapped. He looked at her—really looked at her—and saw the resignation in the set of her jaw. She wasn't fighting him. She was saying goodbye. She was preemptively mourning them while he was sitting right there next to her.

He reached out and took the joint from her fingers. He didn't take a hit. He leaned over and stubbed it out on the icy wood of the deck railing, twisting it until the ember died, leaving a smear of ash against the frost.

He turned back to her, sinking deeper into the water until the cold air wasn't touching his skin anymore. The playfulness was gone. The charm—the easy, deflection-heavy armor he wore like a second skin—was gone.

"Okay," he said. His voice was lower now, stripped of the cadence he used for interviews and fans. It was just Ben. "You want real? Let's be real."

He moved his hand through the water, finding hers again. He didn't just brush her fingers this time; he interlaced them, gripping her hand tight, palm to palm, refusing to let the water act as a barrier.

"You're right. The 'muse' thing... that's a cop-out. It’s a pretty word I use because it makes the distance sound romantic instead of just lonely. It makes me feel like even when I'm a thousand miles away, you're serving a purpose in the art, so you're still with me."

He squeezed her hand, his eyes locked on hers, intense and unblinking.

"But you're wrong about the directions. We don't care in different directions, Cleo. We just exist in different environments. And yeah, mine is loud. It’s fast. It eats people alive if they let it."

He paused, his jaw working as he searched for the words that wouldn't sound like a song lyric. He needed words that sounded like a blueprint.

"You think I don't know that you don't fit in that world?" he asked, his voice rough. "I know you don't. That’s why I love you. If you fit in that world, you’d be just like everyone else I spend ten months of the year with. You’re the anchor. You’re the stillness."

He let go of her hand only to reach up and cup her face. His wet fingers slid into the hair at her temples, his thumbs brushing the damp skin of her cheekbones. He held her there, forcing her to see the absolute, terrifying seriousness in his eyes.

"I am not asking you to come live on a tour bus and pretend to like the noise. I’m not asking you to give up the quiet you built."

He leaned in closer, until his nose was almost brushing hers, his breath hitching slightly.
"But don't sit here and tell me we can't build a life. Because people build lives in harder places than this every day. You say we’re good at moments? Then we string the moments together. We fight for the time. We bleed for the schedule."

He shook his head slightly, his thumbs pressing into her skin.

"I’m tired of the 'it's too hard' narrative. I’m tired of being scared that you’re going to realize I’m too much work. I am work. But you’re the only thing that makes the work worth it."
His voice dropped to a whisper, raw and fierce.

"So don't resign yourself to this ending in five days. Don't treat me like a vacation fling you have to get over. I’m not going anywhere. If I have to fly back here every single weekend to sit in silence and watch you paint just to keep you... then that’s what I’ll do. That’s the work. And I’m willing to do it."

Cleo didn’t pull away when his hand tightened around hers. She couldn’t. The moment he took the joint and killed it, something in her chest already knew where this was going. Real didn’t scare her because it was harsh—it scared her because it was honest.

She looked up at him when he said her name, really looked, and that was the mistake.

Because the playfulness was gone. The armor was gone. What was left was the man she loved standing there bare in a way that had nothing to do with the fact that he wasn’t wearing clothes. His eyes were steady and terrified and sure all at once, like he was bracing for impact but refusing to step back.

She held herself still while he spoke, jaw tight, lips pressed together hard enough that they ached. Every word landed. Every single one. She hated how deeply she understood him. Hated how easily he could reach the parts of her she tried to keep orderly and calm.

When he talked about the muse thing—about loneliness dressed up as poetry—her throat burned. She swallowed hard, nodding once, because that part was true and she’d known it the whole time. When he talked about environments instead of directions, her eyes stung, but she kept them open, kept looking at him like if she blinked she might miss something important.

His hands on her face undid her.

She didn’t pull away. She leaned into his touch instead, her breath turning shallow as her resolve started to fray. She could feel herself slipping—not into fantasy, not into romance—but into want. Into the dangerous part where loving him felt louder than logic.

“I know,” she whispered, the words barely making it past the knot in her throat. “I know you’re not asking me to give up who I am.”

Her voice wavered despite her effort to keep it steady. “That’s not what I’m afraid of.”

She closed her eyes for half a second when he leaned closer, when he talked about fighting for time and bleeding for the schedule. Because that was the part her brain kept screaming about. The exhaustion. The constant adjustment. The way loving him had always meant living half a step behind a calendar that didn’t care about her feelings.

Then he said he’d fly. Every weekend. Every time. Whatever it took.

And that was it.

The dam broke—not because she was sad, not because she didn’t want him, but because the weight of it all hit at once. The love. The fear. The want. The knowledge that she could choose him and still be right… or choose him and be destroyed by how hard it would be.

A sob tore out of her chest before she could stop it. Her shoulders shook, breath hitching as tears spilled over fast and ungraceful, her face crumpling against his hands.

“I want to,” she choked, the words tangled and raw. “God, I want to. I want to say yes and stop thinking and just—”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

Because her brain was still screaming don’t, and her heart was already running toward him.

Before she could talk herself out of it, before fear could reassemble its arguments, she leaned forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was desperate and messy and full of everything she couldn’t say out loud. Her hands came up to his shoulders, fingers curling tight like she was afraid he might disappear if she didn’t hold on.

The kiss said what she couldn’t reconcile yet.

That she loved him.
That she was terrified.
That she wanted him anyway.

And for that moment—just that moment—she stopped thinking altogether and let herself choose him with her whole body, even as tears slipped down her cheeks, even as the future loomed loud and impossible just beyond the steam.

Cleo pulled back slowly, her forehead still brushing his, their breaths tangled and uneven. Her hands stayed on his shoulders like she wasn’t ready to let go, even though she’d stopped kissing him. Her eyes were glassy, lashes clumped with tears she hadn’t bothered wiping away.

She gave a shaky little laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all.

“I’m your muse,” she said softly, like she was admitting something she’d been fighting for years. “I know I am.”

Her thumb brushed over his collarbone, grounding herself in him, in the heat of his skin, in the fact that he was still right there.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “For pretending I’m not. For acting like it doesn’t matter, or like it’s some… silly label. It does matter. You matter.”

Her voice cracked again, but she didn’t look away.

“And I love you,” she said, finally. No defenses. No humor. No conditions. Just truth.

She leaned in once more, resting her forehead against his, eyes closing like she needed that contact to stay upright.

“I love you,” she repeated, quieter.

The kiss wasn't a question; it was a collision.

It was salt and desperation and the kind of raw, terrifying honesty that usually only happened after a bottle of whiskey or a car crash. When her mouth crashed against his, Ben felt the impact rattle his teeth, but he didn't pull back. He surged forward to meet it.

He wrapped his arms around her, abandoning the careful, gentle hold he’d had on her face. He locked one arm around her waist and buried the other hand in her wet hair, pulling her into him until there was no daylight left between them. He kissed her back with a fierce, possessive hunger, trying to pour every ounce of reassurance he had down her throat. I’m here. I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.

When she finally pulled back, gasping and crying, confessing that she was his muse, Ben felt his heart crack open in his chest. It wasn't a clean break; it was a messy, jagged thing that let all the light in.

"I know," he choked out, his voice thick with emotion. He released her hair only to frame her face again, his thumbs frantically wiping away the tears that were mixing with the steam on her cheeks. "I know, baby. I know."

He didn't care about the label. He cared that she wasn't running.

He felt her trembling against him, felt the way she was clinging to his shoulders like he was the only thing keeping her upright. He couldn't stand the distance of the bench anymore.
"Come here," he murmured roughly.

He didn't wait for her to move. He gripped her waist under the water and pulled her bodily toward him. He guided her legs over his hips until she was straddling him, sinking down onto his lap in the hot water. He wrapped his arms around her back, locking his hands together, encasing her completely.

He pressed his forehead against hers, closing his eyes tight, breathing in her shaky exhales.

"I love you," he said. He said it firmly. Absolute. Irrevocable. "I love you, Cleo. I love you in the quiet, and I love you in the noise. I love you when you're painting, and I love you when you're terrified."

He pulled back just an inch, forcing her to look at him through her tear-clumped lashes. His dark eyes were intense, burning with a seriousness that left no room for jokes or charm.

"And you’re right. It’s going to be hard. It’s going to be a logistical nightmare and I’m going to hate every second I’m not with you."

He brought one hand up, tracing the line of her jaw, his thumb resting against the pulse fluttering wildly in her neck.

"But we’re doing it," he vowed, his voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "We’re doing the hard part. I’m booking the flights. I’m making the time. You don't have to carry the weight of the logistics, okay? That’s on me. You just... you just have to keep loving me. Can you do that?"
He searched her face, looking for the promise behind the fear.

"Just keep loving me," he pleaded softly. "And I’ll handle the rest. I swear to you, I’ll handle the rest."

Cleo stayed straddled over him, her hands shaking where they rested on his shoulders. The heat of the water, the steam, his arms locked around her—it all felt too much and not enough at the same time. She swallowed hard, trying to steady her breathing, trying to get the words out before they drowned in her chest.

“I… I can’t imagine myself with anyone else,” she whispered, voice breaking as soon as she said it out loud. “I really can’t. I’ve tried. I’ve played that game in my head, you know? Different faces, different lives. It never sticks. It’s always you.”

She leaned in, pressing soft kisses to his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth—like she needed to map him, memorize him in case her brain ever tried to lie to her again. Each kiss was slow, reverent, soaked in the kind of love that scared her because it felt permanent.

“I’ve thought about it,” she admitted against his skin. “The big stuff. The stupid stuff. Us older. Kids running around in those tiny ear-muff things because their dad plays too loud.” A shaky laugh escaped her, half-sob, half-smile. “I can see it. I really can.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands sliding up to cup his face, thumbs brushing under his eyes like she was trying to wipe away futures that hurt.

“But then the voices in my head start screaming,” she confessed. “They tell me I’ll never be able to handle it. The schedules. The noise. The waiting. The missing you when you’re gone. They tell me I’ll drown in it, that I’ll resent it, that I’ll lose myself trying to hold onto you.”

Her chin trembled.

“And I hate that part of me,” she said quietly. “I hate that my brain always thinks it knows better than my heart.”

She pressed her forehead to his, tears slipping free now, unstoppable.

“Because my heart is all in,” she whispered. “With you. It always has been. I just… I’m terrified I won’t be strong enough to live the life that comes with you.”

Her arms tightened around his neck, clinging to him.

“I love you,” she said again, like it hurt to hold it in. “So much it scares me.”

Cleo folded into him then, like her body finally gave up trying to hold itself together. She tucked her face into the warm curve of his neck, right where his skin still smelled faintly like smoke and soap and him. Her breath hitched against his pulse, and she clung there, pressing her forehead into him like she could anchor herself to that steady rhythm.

Her hands slid up his back, gripping him tight, knuckles whitening under the water. She didn’t say anything at first—just breathed him in, letting herself be small for a second, letting the tears soak into his shoulder instead of spilling into the air between them.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t pretty.

It was quiet and raw and real.

Like she finally let herself collapse into the only place that felt safe enough to fall apart.

The image of it—kids with tiny earmuffs, standing side stage while he played—hit him so hard his chest actually ached. It was a vision he hadn’t let himself fully form, a blurry daydream he kept tucked away in the back of his mind because hoping for it felt dangerous. Hearing her say it, hearing her admit she saw it too, broke him open in a way that nothing else could.

He held her tighter, his arms locking around her back like steel bands, pressing her so close he could feel the frantic beat of her heart against his own. He buried his face in her wet hair, closing his eyes as a wave of fierce, protective heat washed over him.
She thought she wasn't strong enough. She thought she would drown.

"You're wrong," he murmured into her hair, his voice rough and vibrating against her skin. "You are so wrong, Cleo."

He moved one hand up to cup the back of her head, holding her there against his neck, refusing to let her hide the tears.

"You think you're weak because you feel things?" he asked, his tone low and intense. "Baby, you are the strongest person I know. You handle me. You handle the noise just by being near it and making it quiet. You think that's easy? You think anyone else can do that?"

He pulled back, forcing her to lift her head, forcing her to look at him. His eyes were dark, searching hers with a desperate, unwavering certainty.

"And listen to me," he said, gripping her face between his wet hands. "You are not doing this alone. You said you’re scared you’ll lose yourself trying to hold onto me? Then don't hold on so tight. Let me hold onto you."

He wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb, his touch gentle but his jaw set.
"I will carry the weight, Cleo. When the schedule is too much, I’ll fix it. When the noise is too loud, I’ll shut it off. You don't have to be the one who stays strong all the time. You can fall apart. You can hate the tour. You can scream at me when I’m gone too long."

He leaned in, his forehead pressing against hers, his voice dropping to a fierce, broken whisper.

"Just don't leave. That’s all I ask. Be scared with me. Be angry with me. But stay."

He let out a shaky breath, a small, sad smile touching his lips as he looked into her eyes.
"And the kids with the earmuffs?" he choked out, the emotion thick in his throat. "I want that. God, I want that so bad. And we’re going to get there. We’ll buy the earmuffs. We’ll figure out the logistics. We’ll make it work because the alternative—the alternative is me without you, and that’s not an option anymore."

He kissed her then—not with hunger, but with a deep, sealing promise.

"I’ve got you," he breathed against her lips. "I’m right here. I’m not letting you drown."

Cleo didn’t answer right away.

She stayed tucked against him, breathing him in, letting his words sink through the noise in her head like warm water through frozen ground. Her fingers tightened in the fabric at his back, knuckles pressing there like she was making sure he was real. Still here. Still choosing her.

Hope felt dangerous.

It always had.

She’d spent so many years pretending she didn’t want this—pretending she was above it, stronger than it, immune to the idea of building something that could hurt this badly if it broke. She’d told herself she was fine with moments. With fragments. With love that lived in pockets of time instead of stretching forward into a future.

But sitting here in his arms, steam rising around them, his voice shaking because he meant every word… she couldn’t lie anymore.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, really look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed. Earnest. Terrified and brave at the same time. The man she loved. The man she’d been trying not to hope for.

Her voice came out soft, uneven.

“I’ve been pretending for so long,” she admitted, thumb brushing over his collarbone. “Pretending I didn’t care this much. Pretending I wasn’t picturing all of it… the messy parts, the loud parts, the terrifying parts.”

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t look away.

“I told myself wanting this was stupid. That it would hurt too much. That I wasn’t built for your world.”

She shook her head slowly, a watery laugh slipping out.

“But God, Ben… I do want it. I want you. I’ve always wanted you.”

She reached up, cupping his face with both hands, pressing her forehead to his.

“I’m scared,” she whispered. “I probably always will be. My brain is never going to stop screaming at me about what could go wrong.”

Then—quietly, bravely—

“But I don’t want to run anymore.”

Her eyes filled again, but this time the tears were different. Softer. Lighter.

“I have hope,” she said. “And I hate how much it scares me… but I’m not pushing it away anymore.”

She leaned in, brushing her lips to his cheek, his jaw, everywhere she could reach like she needed to mark the moment.

“I’m with you,” she said, finally. Steady. Certain. “We’re going to have this. The hard parts. The quiet parts. The loud parts. All of it.”

Her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him close.

“I don’t know what it’s going to look like,” she murmured. “But I’m choosing you. I’m choosing us.”

And for the first time, she didn’t flinch at the word future.

She held him like she believed in it.

The knot that had been sitting in the center of his chest for months—maybe years—finally unraveled.

It wasn't a sudden snap; it was a slow, warm release, like the tension leaving his muscles when he first sank into the water. Hearing her say it—I'm choosing us—was the quietest, most thunderous sound he had ever heard.

He felt the sting of tears in his own eyes, hot and sudden, and he didn't bother to fight them. He just let out a shaky, incredulous laugh that vibrated against her forehead.
"You have no idea," he whispered, his voice rough with relief. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to hear you say that."

He pulled back just enough to see her. She looked wrecked and beautiful, her face wet with tears and steam, her eyes shining with that new, terrifying hope. She looked like the rest of his life.

He brought his hands up to cup her face again, his thumbs brushing over her cheekbones, treating her like she was the most precious thing in the universe.

"I’ll take the hope," he promised, his gaze intense. "I’ll take the fear. I’ll take the screaming brain. I’ll take all of it, Cleo. As long as you don't run, I can handle anything."

He leaned in, kissing her soft and deep, sealing the promise against her lips. It was a kiss of gratitude, of overwhelming love, of a man who realized he just got the one thing he was terrified he’d lose.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers again, a lopsided, watery grin spreading across his face.

"And just for the record," he murmured, the old charm creeping back into his voice, warm and familiar. "Those kids? They’re gonna have the coolest earmuffs money can buy. Custom made. Maybe some glitter. We’re not doing anything halfway."

He squeezed her waist under the water, grounding her, grounding himself.

"So, new rule," he announced softly. "No more counting down the five days. We’re not on a timeline anymore. We’re just... living. Okay?"

He kissed the tip of her wet nose.

"Now, are you going to let me make you dinner? Because I bought an embarrassing amount of pasta at the store, and I feel like we have something to celebrate."

Cleo didn’t answer him right away.

She just wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling herself closer until her forehead rested against his, her breath shaky but warm. The sound that left her was half laugh, half sob—soft and disbelieving, like her body was still catching up to what her heart had already decided.

“I know,” she said quietly, her voice thick. “I know you’ve wanted it. I think that’s why I was so scared to say it out loud. I didn't want to let you down.”

She leaned into his touch when he held her face, her hands sliding up his arms, thumbs brushing over his shoulders like she was grounding herself in the fact that he was real. Here. Choosing her back just as fiercely.

When he talked about taking all of it—the fear, the noise, the mess—her eyes squeezed shut for a second, emotion cresting too fast. She nodded against his hands, swallowing hard.

“I’m not running,” she said, more to herself than to him at first. Then she opened her eyes and looked at him properly. “I don’t want to be brave alone anymore. And I don’t want to pretend I don’t feel things just to make it easier.”

His kiss broke her open in the gentlest way. She kissed him back slowly, deliberately, like she was sealing the choice she’d just made into her bones. When he pulled away, she stayed close, noses brushing, her smile small but real.

At his grin, she let out a breathy laugh and shook her head, pressing her face briefly into his shoulder like she couldn’t help herself.

“Okay,” she said, nodding once, decisively. “Okay. No countdown. No five-day math in my head. Just… living.”

She kissed the tip of his nose back, softer this time, affectionate and grounding.

“And yes,” she added, finally pulling back just enough to look at him properly, a spark of playful determination lighting her eyes. “I’ll let you make dinner.”

A pause. A tilt of her head.

“But only if you let me show you how to make a centerpiece,” she continued, already slipping out of his arms. “Because I love you, but the paper bag and oranges situation? That was inspired chaos at best.”

She laughed as she stood, water streaming off her skin, not bothering with a robe or slippers. She glanced back at him over her shoulder, eyes bright.

“Don’t start without me,” she called, already moving off the deck toward the trees. “I’ll be right back. I’m upgrading us.”

And for the first time in a long time, her chest didn’t feel tight with fear when she walked away—just light with possibility.

Cleo didn’t slow down when her feet hit the snow.

The cold bit immediately—sharp and clean against her skin—but it only made her laugh under her breath as she stepped off the deck and into the edge of the trees. Steam still clung to her shoulders, hair damp against her neck, the two-piece doing absolutely nothing to protect her from January in Truckee, and yet she felt strangely untouchable.

Like the cold couldn’t reach whatever had finally settled inside her.

She scanned the ground first, crouching to brush snow aside with her fingers. Pinecones came easy—small, tight ones tucked near the base of the trees, dusted white. She gathered a few into the crook of her arm, then stood and snapped a thin branch cleanly from a fallen limb, inspecting it like she was already picturing it on the table.

Better than a paper bag, Wilder.

She found berries next—deep red, stubbornly clinging to a low bush that hadn’t surrendered to winter yet. She hesitated only a second before plucking a few, the color vivid against the snow. She smiled at that. The contrast. The way life insisted on showing up even when everything else was dormant.

She hugged her little haul to her chest and tipped her face up toward the cabin for a moment, watching the faint glow from the windows, imagining him inside already filling a pot with water, probably humming something half-formed, probably pretending he wasn’t watching the door.

The thought softened her chest again.

“I’m doing this,” she murmured to herself, more a promise than a declaration. “We’re doing this.”

The cold finally started to sink in for real, goosebumps racing up her arms, and she let out a small hissed laugh as she turned back toward the deck, balancing branches and pinecones and berries like a scavenger with a purpose.

She jogged the last stretch, bare feet slapping against the wood as she climbed back up, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, heart steady.

Ben didn't move from the water immediately. He sat up straighter, resting his elbows on the frosted rim of the tub, ignoring the cold air biting at his wet forearms so he could keep his eyes locked on the figure moving through the trees.

She was insane. Absolute, beautiful, certified lunatic behavior.

He watched her crouch down in the snow, her skin glowing pale against the shadows of the pines, scavenging for pinecones like she wasn't wearing nothing but a few scraps of fabric in sub-freezing temperatures. Every instinct in his body wanted to yell at her to get back in the warmth, to wrap her in a towel and carry her inside, but he stayed put.

He stayed put because he saw the way she was moving. She wasn't shivering; she was bounding. She looked light. She looked like the weight she’d been carrying around for days—the fear, the hesitation—had just evaporated into the thin mountain air.

If freezing her ass off to find the perfect branch was what she needed to seal the deal on "us," he wasn't going to stop her.

"Careful," he murmured under his breath, his muscles tensed and ready to launch himself over the railing if she slipped on a patch of ice. "Don't drop the berries, babe."

He watched her snap a branch, watched her inspect it with that critical artist’s eye he loved so much, and a huff of laughter escaped him, puffing out as a white cloud. She was right. His paper bag and orange situation had been tragic. She was going to turn a pile of yard debris into something that looked like it belonged in a magazine, and he was going to take full credit for finding the location.

As she turned back toward the deck, clutching her frozen treasure to her chest, Ben finally moved.

He hauled himself out of the water in one fluid motion, the transition from 104 degrees to 20 degrees hitting him like a physical slap. He gasped, water streaming off his naked body and turning instantly icy on his skin.

He grabbed the thick towel he’d left on the bench, whipping it around his waist and tucking it securely just as her bare feet slapped onto the deck stairs.

He stood there, dripping wet, steam rising off his skin, and just shook his head at her as she crested the top step. She was flushed pink from the cold, her hair freezing in wet clumps, holding a bundle of sticks and berries like she’d just robbed a squirrel.

"You," he said, reaching out to grab her free arm and hustle her toward the sliding door, "are a maniac. A visionary, sure. But a maniac."

He pulled the glass door open, ushering her into the warmth of the cabin before the cold could settle into her bones.

"Get inside before you turn into an ice sculpture. I am not explaining to the paramedics why my girlfriend is frozen to a pinecone."

Cleo laughed as he grabbed her arm, half stumbling because she absolutely refused to slow down for him. The cold barely registered now—she was riding the high of adrenaline and whatever soft miracle had just cracked open in her chest.

“Hey,” she protested between breathless laughs as he herded her toward the door, “I was careful. Mostly.”

The word girlfriend hit her a second later.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just… there. Slipped into the sentence like it belonged.

Her grin went soft and private instantly, something just for herself as she let him hustle her inside. She didn’t say anything about it—didn’t want to spook it—but she tucked the word away like a secret treasure.

Inside, the warmth wrapped around her and she finally hissed, “Okay, fine, you win, it’s freezing,” but she didn’t stop moving. She shook the snow from her hands and crossed straight to the fireplace, kneeling down to carefully unload her haul onto the floor—pinecones first, then branches, then the berries, arranging them like she was already mentally composing the centerpiece.

“Tragic paper bag era is officially over,” she muttered to herself, smiling.

She popped back up and wandered into the kitchen, opening cabinets with quick, purposeful movements. “We have to have something glass in here,” she murmured, rifling through shelves until she found a mismatched set of old vases and candle holders clearly left behind by previous renters.

“Perfect,” she whispered, grabbing a tall one and a squat little bowl.

She spotted a rolled runner tucked on a shelf—some forgotten decorative thing—and snatched it too, tucking it under her arm before heading back to the fireplace and dropping everything in a messy pile.

Then she disappeared down the hallway toward their room.

Ben would hear drawers opening, zippers tugged, a very focused hum. She resurfaced a moment later with a silky pair of red pajamas balled up in her hands, grinning like she’d found buried treasure.

She glanced at the setup again, then muttered, half to herself,
“I need scissors…”

Two steps later she leaned into the doorway and called out, louder—

“Hey, rockstar—do we have scissors or am I about to commit a crime with a steak knife?”