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“Opossums, and yes.”

I know it’s childish, but I can’t stop myself from rolling my eyes. “It’s possum. Opossum is the slang word for them. The one little kids use.”

“Incorrect. The technical name is opossum.” Archer seems so sure that now I’m questioning myself, even though I’m the one with the possum-filled Instagram feed. “Look it up if you don’t believe me,” he says.

We stand there, glaring, until it dawns on me that for a person who avoids conflict like it’s an infectious disease, I can’t seem to stop diving headfirst into it with Archer. It’s like his personality unlocks some basement level in me.

I don’t like the transformation.

And yet, it clearly energizes some part of me, which isn’t something I want to admit, even to myself.

“We can save this debate for later,” I say, fully intending to walk away, find Sophie and my spare key, and then place caution tape across my closet so I never go in there again.

But then Archer glances toward the back doors with clear trepidation on his face, and my steps slow.

He’s lonely, Bellamy told me earlier, and I wish he hadn’t.

Because if there’s one thing I can’t resist, it’s helping people who need it. Before those texts, Archer seemed like the kind of man who needed nothing.

Now, he’s standing here in a fancy suit holding a trash bag in each hand, still breathing a little hard from being chased—allegedly—by possums.

I frown. “Youwere taking out the building trash?”

I wish I’d done a little better job of hiding the disbelief in my voice.

He hesitates. “Yes.”

Then I remember that this week, Archer fired John, the building manager. Gloria from 3G told me when I ran into her getting mail this week. She stores juicy tidbits about people in the building like some people doomsday prep. But somehow, it’s not in an unkind way. More like she’s The Serendipity’s version of a gossip column.

I didn’t particularlyloveJohn—he was slow to respond if residents had any issues and a grumbly crank about most things—but he did work hereforever.

If Archer can kick someone like him to the curb, what other changes will he make?

I think of the kitchen and Archer’s questions about my agreement with Galentine. If I have any hope of keeping my baking space, maybe I need a different approach than sparring with Archer at every turn.

And it’s thoughts of my business—andmostlymy business—not an unwelcome spark of pity for how lost Archer seems right now that has me asking, “Can I help?”

Archer blinks at me, looking a little stunned. “With the trash?”

I bite back a few remarks about things I think he could use help with. Like his personality. And his apparent lack of a heart, as evidenced by firing John. Despite all my reasons not to help him, my sense of compassion has mixed with my sense of self preservation.

We are doing this thing.

I hold out my hand. “Give me a bag. We can go together. Safety in numbers.”

I want to add,Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe from the big, bad attack possum, but Archer looks so flustered, I hold back.

Flustered is a state of being I’m very familiar with. I’d guess for a man like him, it’s more like an out-of-body experience.

He hesitates but then hands me one of the bags. “Fine. But I warned you.”

Hedidwarn me.

So when we step outside and immediately there is a hissing gray creature hurtling toward us, all jagged teeth and pointy snout, I should be prepared.

But I’m not really sure words can be enough to warn someone about an attack possum. Oropossum.

There’s only one, but it seems much too large and far too angry and somehow gives the impression of being a possum army rather than one rather oversized rodent.