Page 31 of Paws & Order

His eyes never open. But one corner of his mouth lifts. Like he knows.

I retreat before he can catch me being sentimental.

Instead, I scroll through the local neighborhood feed.

Three new posts catch my eye.

A missing mailbox that reappeared two hours later.

A batch of lemon bars left on someone's doorstep.

Still warm.

No fingerprints.

And the recurring specter at the coffeehouse apparently left behind a shot glass of espresso and a business card that simply read:

It's Always the Second Cup.

I stare at the screen. There's a pattern here. Like a trail of gifts. Not just for me. For anyone paying attention.

At midnight—because apparently that's when the universe schedules all its nonsense—I hear a noise from the living room.

Not a crash. Not a footstep. Just the soft, crystalline ping of glass.

I step out of my bedroom. Gomez is perched on the arm of the sofa, tail puffed and eyes bright as floodlights. Cassian is awake. The book is gone, and a cheese danish rests in his open palm.

He blinks up at me. "Did you leave this here?"

I stop. "What?"

He lifts the pastry. "I thought you bought it."

"I thought you bought it."

For a second, we just stare at each other. Then we both look toward the kitchen. A clean plate sits on the counter. Beside it is a folded napkin. And tucked into a shot glass is a single blue tulip. Smaller than the others. Delicate and fresh. Neither of us moves.

Cassian sets the danish down carefully.

His expression shifts from concern to confusion. Slowly. Painfully.

"What?" I ask.

He shakes his head. “I don't know."

Which, coming from Cassian Wolfridge, might be the most alarming thing he's ever said.

I stare at the tulip.

At the neatly folded napkin. At the pastry neither of us bought. At the impossible care behind all of it.

For the first time since this started, I don't feel threatened. I feel watched.

And somehow, that's stranger.

"We need a new plan," I say.

Cassian nods.