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"It gets worse. The board is in panic mode. They're demanding I stay in New York for at least two months to oversee the transition." His voice cracked slightly. "I've been arguing with them all morning, but with the merger talks still ongoing..."

"Two months?" The words felt like stones in my mouth.

"I'm so sorry, Chloe. I've tried everything to find another solution."

I watched his face, the genuine distress in his eyes, the slump of his shoulders. This wasn't what he wanted either.

"Hey, it's okay. We'll figure it out." The lie tasted bitter, but I forced a smile. "It's just geography, right?"

"You're amazing." He sighed heavily. "I need to get back to this emergency board meeting, but I'll call tonight. I promise."

After we disconnected, I stood frozen between shelves of enchanted pasta that had begun humming a mournful Puccini aria, perfectly matching my mood.

I stared at the black screen of my phone, the conversation with Lincoln replaying in my mind. Two months. Two entire months without him.

Zelda appeared at my side, grocery basket in hand. "Everything alright?"

"Lincoln's stuck in New York. For two months."

She studied my face. "And that scares you."

"No, it's fine. Totally fine." I shoved my phone into my pocket. "He has responsibilities. I get it."

"Mmhmm." Zelda handed me my basket. "Just remember, dear—running a company and running from commitment are two different things."

I frowned. "He's not running."

"I wasn't talking about him."

Back home, I paced my cottage living room, mind racing. Lincoln's face—the stress lines, the exhaustion—haunted me. I'd been so focused on my own insecurities that I'd missed how much pressure he was under.

"This is fixable," I muttered, grabbing my laptop. "I can help."

Frosty wandered in from the kitchen, wearing the tiny apron Lincoln had custom-made for him. "What's fixable? The sink? Because I've been telling you for weeks?—"

"Lincoln's work situation." I opened my email and started typing furiously. "He needs help managing everything from New York, and I have editing experience now."

Frosty hopped onto the coffee table, peering at my screen. "It's three in the morning."

"Is it?" I glanced at the clock, surprised. "Doesn't matter. I'm creating a system to organize his current manuscripts. Color-coded by deadline priority, with progress tracking and?—"

"Have you slept at all?"

I ignored him, clicking to a new tab. "I'm also emailing his team to offer taking on additional manuscripts. They're short-staffed, and I have time."

Frosty's comb flopped as he tilted his head. "You've been working for sixteen hours straight."

"I need to be useful." My fingers flew across the keyboard. "If I can prove I'm valuable enough to his business, then maybe..."

"Maybe what?" Frosty asked quietly.

"Maybe he won't forget about me." The words tumbled out before I could stop them.

Frosty's feathers ruffled. "Chloe Woolsworth, relationships aren't performance reviews. You don't earn someone's affection through productivity metrics."

"You don't understand?—"

"I understand you're trying to make yourself indispensable because you're scared." He fixed me with his beady eyes. "Lincoln doesn't love you because you edit manuscripts. He loves who you are."

"He's only admitted that he loves me once," I snapped, defensive heat rising in my cheeks.

"And creating the world's most efficient spreadsheet will change that?"

I stared at Frosty, his words hitting harder than I wanted to admit. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, suddenly unsure.

"I'm not creating spreadsheets to make him love me," I lied, then glanced at the color-coded Excel monstrosity on my screen. "Okay, fine. Maybe I am."

Frosty hopped closer, his tiny glasses sliding down his beak. "Featherbutt wisdom, coming in hot: you can't organize your way into someone's heart."

"Watch me try." I saved the file and slumped back against the couch. "It's just... everyone expects him to be in New York. His grandfather, his board, his authors. Who am I compared to all that?"

"The witch who makes his magic spark," Frosty said, mimicking Lincoln's deep voice so badly I had to laugh.

I must have fallen asleep on the couch, because I woke to Frosty's wing gently patting my face.

"Your phone's about to vibrate itself off the table," he whispered.

I grabbed it, blinking at the screen. Lincoln. My heart did that annoying flutter thing as I answered.

"Hey," I mumbled, voice still thick with sleep.

"Chloe." Lincoln's voice sounded strained. "I just got your emails. All seventeen of them."

I winced. "In my defense, I was very caffeinated."

"It's five in the morning there. Have you slept at all?"

"Technically yes. Just now. For about..." I glanced at the clock, "twenty minutes."

Frosty snorted and wandered toward the kitchen, muttering something about "intervention pancakes."

"The color-coded spreadsheet system is impressive," Lincoln said. "As is your offer to take on three additional manuscripts, create a new filing protocol, and—" he paused, "did you really volunteer to review the entire backlist catalog for potential reprints?"

I sat up straighter. "I have time. And I'm good at organizing things. And you need help, and I?—"

"Need to breathe," he finished gently. "Chloe, this is incredibly thoughtful, but I'm worried about you."

"I'm fine. I just want to help."

"You are helping. But my absence isn't your responsibility to fix."

The words hit me like a bucket of cold water. I stared at the spreadsheet still open on my laptop, with its elaborate conditional formatting and nested formulas.

"I know that," I said quietly.

"Do you?"

I picked at a loose thread on my ratty t-shirt.

"I just... I don't know where I fit in your world sometimes.

You have this whole life in New York with important people and board meetings and corner offices with views.

And I'm just... here. With my cottage and my sarcasm and a rooster who thinks he's Gordon Ramsay. "

"I heard that!" Frosty called from the kitchen.

Lincoln's voice softened. "You know what scares me? That I won't be able to balance everything. That the company will consume me again like it did before I met you. That I'll disappoint my grandfather, or the board, or—worst of all—you."

"You could never disappoint me," I said automatically.

"And you could never be just anything to me, Chloe Woolsworth."

I closed my eyes, letting his words sink in. "So what do we do?"

"We find balance. I'll take your organizational help—within reason—and I promise daily updates. But you have to promise not to turn yourself inside out trying to be my entire publishing team."

"Deal," I said, feeling something tight in my chest finally loosen. "But I'm keeping the spreadsheet."

"I wouldn't dream of taking it away. It has animated pie charts."