after a long day of baking dozens of mini pumpkin loaves, icing cookies shaped like cats, and tying up little boxes with twine, you and milo finally collapsed on your bed—him already face-first in your pillow, probably covered in powdered sugar from how much he’d been “taste testing.” you sold three dozen boxes today. he got you at least five of those sales just from hanging around your table and talking like he was your manager.

“you’re like a domestic goddess,” he mumbled, lifting his head just enough to look at you. “if you were in the great depression you’d still be hot and covered in flour with like six boyfriends who all chop wood for you.”

he licked frosting off his thumb—your frosting, from your container—and then rolled onto his side like he lived here. and maybe he sort of did. he was always in your space, leaning against you, holding your wrists, playing with the hem of your apron like it was nothing. you never really stopped him.

his skin was pale and blotchy, in a sickly victorian way, like if he had a fainting spell it would be aesthetic. he had sharp canines, big front teeth, one slightly crooked, and his eyebrows were heavy and dark—frowny looking even when he was smiling. he always smelled like clean laundry and vanilla extract, and not because he washed his clothes. you were the reason for that.

he looked around your room like it belonged to both of you. “you should do a cupcake drop. like, not even sell them. just give them to hot people with good taste in music.” he sat up and rested his head on your shoulder. “but obviously i’d get the first one. for quality control.”

you didn’t say anything. he was already stealing a cake pop off your tray.