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I stood in the pantry holding the jar for a while.

“Shelf’s yours,” he said from the doorway, his gaze on the floor. “The stool too. If it’s the wrong height, I’ll adjust it to fit.”

“When did you build the stool?”

“Had the boards.”

The bedroom finished me off. His bed had to be the size of my entire loft room at home, built of oak, and it had been made up fresh with sheets that smelled of wind and clean linen. He lowered my crates to a spot by the window, where the light came in over the fields.

“You’ll have the house,” he said. “I’ll be in the barn loft. It’s snug up there. I’ve slept in it plenty of harvests⁠—”

“This is still madness. It’s your bed, Goran. You’re nearly eight feet of male and the hayloft will be chilly and drafty and I assume there’s no bathing chamber or kitchen.”

“Argue if you like,” he said, and started for the wagon to collect more crates. “You’ll have the house.”

“Well, you’ll eat here, won’t you?” I called out to his back. “And use the bathing chamber?”

“Will.”

He left the building, shutting the door behind him.

I walked out to his kitchen and stood in a slant of late-day sunlight, with my hand in my pocket around a river stone.

After he’d brought everything inside, I started unpacking. He left to work, not returning until the sun had slipped below the horizon.

He cooked. I’d expected to earn my keep in the kitchen. But he stood at the stove, his sleeves rolled up and his suspenders off his shoulders for the evening, handling a knife longer than his forearm, dicing an onion into confetti. Goran cooked like he farmed. No wasted motion. Everything mended and sharp.

One flawless winter squash sat on the counter nearby, waiting.

“That’s my squash,” I said. “The beautiful one from your last crate. I left it at the shop for—” For a special occasion. He’d carried it to my shop. He’d carried it back here, with his wagon, and placed it inside his kitchen.

“You said it deserved an occasion.” He split it one-handed, clean down the middle, and after scooping out the seeds, set the halves face down in a pan. His horn-bases had gone gold again. “This seems like one.”

We ate at the wedding-sized table, me on top of a crate placed on one of the enormous chairs, him across from me. The faelamps burned bright. Ginger lay in front of the stove, a pool of orange stripes on a beautiful folded quilt Goran had placed there for her. Asha’s bread sat quarantined in the pantry, where it had already twice begun to sing a lilting tune about romance. We ate roasted squash with butter and sage. Bitter greens, dressed the way I liked them. Well-seasoned meat. And plums for after, in a bowl between us.

I talked. He listened, which no one else had ever done. He gave me a few words at a time, and once, an entire sentence about the creek and where the moonbell herb grew along it. I laughed when he told me a tale about Turnip. Laughed until I had to put my fork down. His almost-smile lost the fight and became a whole one. Brief, crooked, and gone too soon.

I suspected I’d have to wait another two years for the next.

After we’d washed the dishes together, me standing on the stool that fit perfectly, we went to the living room.

He banked the stove and took one blanket from the cushioned bench, plus a lamp. “I’m off to the loft. Goodnight.”

“I can’t talk you into⁠—”

“No.”

“Then goodnight.”

When he’d shut the door, I scurried to the window and watched him stride across the yard and into the barn. A short time later, a light came on up in the gable.

I washed up in the bathing chamber and climbed into his bed with my hair down and Ginger draped across my feet. The latest river stone sat on the nightstand beside me. The sheets smelled of herbs and him, and the house lay around me, waiting.

Twenty sighs tonight, Ginger said, a yawn stretching her face, showing off her fangs. I’ll start the count now and save us both time.

I was asleep before I could argue.

I slept better than I had all year.