Page 126 of Tempest’s Torment

"I don't know, you haven't told me why you're here yet."

"I was passing."

"Your clubhouse is twenty minutes in the other direction."

"I took the scenic route."

"Of course you did."

I go back to the arrangement in front of me. I don't mind him checking on me. I think he knows that. He's quiet for a moment and when I look up again, he's staring at the flowers in my hands.

Sunflowers. His expression has changed, not much, but I see it.

"You okay?" I ask.

His eyes move to mine. "Was about to ask you the same thing."

I look down. My fingers are wrapped around one of the stems and for a second, I see a completely different kitchen. Lucy standing at the sink on a Saturday morning with a bunch of sunflowers she'd bought at the market, complaining because one of them had a bent stem.

She bought them almost every week. Always too many for the one vase we owned, so the extras ended up in old jam jars around the flat. Once, she leaned so far into a bunch checking whether one had opened properly that she came away with pollen on the end of her nose. She refused to believe me until I took a picture. I still have that picture.

"Lucy loved these." Kai doesn't say anything. "She used to buy them on Saturdays. Every fucking Saturday, even when we were broke."

I turn the stem in my hand and tuck it into the arrangement. "Evan knew that."

"Yeah."

"That's why he used them." Kai's jaw tightens and I reach for another. "But they were hers first." His eyes stay on me. I adjust the flower until it sits where I want it. "He doesn't get to take them too."

"No," Kai says quietly. "He doesn't."

And with that, the arrangement is complete.

"Are you ever going back to your apartment?"

Kai lowers the paper enough to look at me over the top of it. We're at the kitchen table after dinner, and I've been watching him pretend to read the same page for at least five minutes.

"Probably."

"When?"

He thinks about it. "Need more socks eventually."

I snort and his paper goes back up.

I look around the apartment. His boots are beside mine at the door. His cut is over the arm of the couch, his phone charger has permanently replaced mine beside the bed and there are now two different kinds of coffee in my cupboard because apparently mine is unacceptable. There's a pile of his washing in the bedroom, his shampoo is in my shower, and his toothbrush is beside mine.

The only thing that hasn't moved in is his clothes, and that's mainly because they're close enough for him to walk across the hall whenever he needs something, although the pile here continues to grow. He hasn't slept in his apartment once since the farmhouse. I don't want him to.

The realization isn't new. I've known it for a while; I just haven't said it out loud.

"Move in."

The paper lowers again, this time, going all the way to the table. "What?"

"You heard me."

His eyes search my face. "You sure?"