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He put the glasses back on, and studied the Flint-sized emptiness on the other side of the bed.

Did we—? Had that actually—?

But yeah. They did. That had. And he was okay with it. Surprised at himself, surprised at both of them, in the cold light of day, but okay. The surrounding circumstances had been…unique. He could blame sleep deprivation, shock, pain meds, and Chivas Regal. He could blame any number of things for his uncharacteristic behavior, but he didn’t want to find blame. He didn’t need an excuse. He didn’t regret what had happened. Unless Flint did.

Flint was still there, though, somewhere. Zach could smell coffee brewing, could hear Flint whistling cheerily as he banged around Zach’s tiny kitchen in search of…was he mining for gold? It sounded like a lot of pans involved in whatever was happening.

That was a good sign, right? That Flint had not fled into the night?

“What do you think?” Zach asked Mr. B.

Mr. B.’smeowdefinitely held a note of reserved judgment.

Zach threw back the blankets, smothering a yelp—his knee had stiffened during the night—and began to dress.

When he hobbled into the kitchen a few minutes later, Flint greeted him with a quick look and a distracted, “There you are.” He held up a metal reamer. “Do you actually squeeze your own orange juice?”

Which was a little anti-climactic for sure. Zach followed Flint’s cue. “I do if I have time.”

“Sorry, I don’t have that kind of time.” Flint clattered two plates onto the table. “Eat up. We’ve got to get moving.”

Zach studied the neatly arranged scrambled eggs, bacon, and toaster waffles. He did not usually have more than a cup of coffee for breakfast, but he said, “This looks great. Thank you.”

Flint grunted, took the seat across from Zach’s, and forked up a mouthful of eggs.

Zach also took a mouthful of eggs, and found them fluffy and delicious. Jesus. Flint couldcook? He’d kind of figured Flint for a guy who lived hand-to-mouth—in the processed foods sense.

He studied Flint with new and respectful curiosity.

Flint, head bowed, seemed to have nothing more on his mind than cleaning his plate.

Oh. Kay.

Zach glanced at Mr. B., who was daintily picking his way through a plate of Smalls fresh cat food.

“Did you feed him?”

Flint raised his head, looking blank. He followed Zach’s gaze, and shrugged. “I tried. He seemed to think I was trying to poison him.”

“I guess he’s concluded you’re one of the good guys.”

Flint made an unconvinced sound, and changed the subject. “Did the cops actually investigate last night? There’s no fingerprint powder in the garage. There’s no indication they were in there at all.”

“They weren’t. They didn’t do more than glance inside the house either. The official opinion was that I startled a homeless person who had decided to bed down for the night in my garage.”

Flint’s brows pulled into a frown. “How do they explain breaking into your house?”

Zach said, “They didn’t believe therewasa break-in. They think I had to have left the window open because nothing was damaged or stolen.”

“And you also left the garage door open?”

Zach nodded. “In fairness, the lock on the garage side door is mostly for show. You can get the latch to turn if you know how to wiggle the knob.”

“Oh, that’s terrific.”

Zach shrugged. “There’s nothing of value in there but my Mustang, and as you not-so-tactfully pointed out, they’d have to bring a tow truck for that.”

Flint’s grin was unrepentant. “You have a point.”