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When he came back, he had two mugs and a small plate with some of the good chocolate from the back of the cabinet—the one we both swore we were saving for special occasions. Why? Because my grandmother had one of those and it seemed like a nice tradition for us to adopt. And just like with her, special occasion sounded like it was going to mean, “when we want one.”

He handed me the mug first and then dropped a kiss onto the top of my head before settling beside me. We sipped in silence for a while, shoulder to shoulder, our thighs pressed together. The warmth of the tea seeped into my fingers.

“Want to open a box?” he asked, nudging one with his socked foot.

“Sure,” I said. “Dealer’s choice.”

He reached for one near the coffee table. It was one I hadn’t labeled well—just “STUFF” written in Sharpie.

Dangerous territory. At the time I’d labeled the boxes, I swore I’d remember what they all meant. I’d been a liar face. I remembered none of them.

He opened the flaps slowly, like it might bite. Inside were the contents of not one, not two, but three junk drawers.

And at the bottom of the box, a shoebox. Slightly dented. Taped shut.

He looked at me. “This one important?”

“Yeah. Open it.” Inside were photographs. I always planned to put them in an actual album, but never did. Some were from when I was small, others from generations before me. Each one telling a story, most of which I understood. There was one picture of my grandfather with a man I had no recognition of and another of a couple that looked as familiar as a random stranger at the grocery store.

“Tell me about this one.” He held out a picture of my great-grandfather next to a tomato plant that had somehow grown taller than his over six feet.

“I’ll tell you about them all.” I snuggled into him, and we traveled down memory lane together, the clutter forgotten until another time.

19

GARNER

I couldn’t sleep. Not on my left side, right side, or on my back. There was no way I’d get on my belly because I’d never close my eyes in that position.

My fox was restless too, telling me to open the curtains so he could look at the moon. Being shifters, we had a special connection to that celestial body. In the wild, our lives were regulated by the lunar cycles.

I’d once made the mistake of telling my beast the moon had no light of its own, but it was reflected from the sun. He refused to speak to me for days, believing I was fibbing.

What is that noise?

Inside or out?Life was rarely 100% quiet for a shifter, and sometimes I longed for human hearing.

In the other room?

Joss’s clock. It was an antique that had belonged to his grandparents. It ding-donged at the hour, half-hour, and at thequarter past and to. Gods, it was annoying, but he said it chimed through his childhood, so it stayed in our house.

Wish I could muzzle it.

Me too.

But it wasn’t just the clock that made us both restless. Not knowing what it was or how I could resolve it, I lay sleepless, counting the hours until Joss woke.

I brought him breakfast in bed, and though he nibbled a piece of toast, he said he was too wound up to eat as he had to work on a project that was due in a week.

It was Sunday, so he was in the home office and I shuttled back and forth with drinks, hot and cold, and food.

“What are you staring at, Garner?”

Gods, I hadn’t realized I was, but my mate was gorgeous, wearing an old shirt of mine and shorts, his bare feet planted on the wooden floor. He was leaning against the desk, the laptop balanced on one hand.

“I’m not.” I was and not just because I was besotted with my mate.

“Stop it!”