My stomach dropped. “…Now.”
Her expression went still. “What do you mean, now?”
I glanced toward the door without thinking, the quiet of the apartment suddenly feeling thinner, more temporary.
“He’s coming here,” I replied.
Micah straightened. “Like your teeny tiny apartment.”
“That very one.”
“Like—” She looked past the screen instinctively, as if she could somehow see my apartment from Chicago. “To stay?”
I nodded.
Something in her face shifted again—not panic, not exactly, but something more grounded. More real.
She exhaled. “That’s—wow.”
“I was forced into this so fast,” I admitted, my voice dropping, the words finally landing in a way they hadn’t before. “Ihave no idea what to even do. How is any of this going to work?”
For a second, neither of us spoke.
Bento shifted on the couch behind me, stretching before hopping down, his paws silent against the floor as he moved closer, circling my legs once before settling just out of the path of my pacing.
Micah’s expression softened, but not in a way that tried to fix it. “At least you have the job,” she chortled quietly.
I huffed out a breath, something sharp and tired catching in my chest. “That’s not comforting.”
“It’s not supposed to be comforting,” she shot back gently. “It’s the thinnest sliver of a silver lining.”
I stopped pacing.
Just for a second.
Long enough to feel it.
I had the job. And before I could wrap my head around the entire situation I was now drowning in, a sharp knock rattled the door.
I froze.
On the screen, Micah’s eyes widened. “Is that him?”
Bento reacted before I did. His whole body went taut beside my ankle, ears pricking forward as he turned toward the sound. A second later, he slipped away from me entirely, moving low and silent toward the far end of the couch like retreat was the more intelligent option.
My pulse stumbled.
“Oh my God,” I breathed.
Micah leaned so close to her camera that half her face filled the screen. “You have to let him in.”
I stared at the door for one useless second longer, my hand tightening around my phone. Then I forced my feet to move.
I reached the door, inhaled once, and pulled it open.
Alois filled the frame.
Not just because he was tall—though he was, broad enough that the narrow hall outside seemed to shrink around him—but because his presence hit the space before he did. Dark duffle bag hanging from one hand. A stack of books tucked under the other arm, the spines worn and creased, titles in French and German. His coat was open, cold air still clinging to him, carrying in the faint scent of night and city and expensive soap under it. His face looked exactly like it had in every too-sharp clip cycling through sports media all day—hard lines, pale eyes, jaw set like a locked door.