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My stomach dropped, but I forced my face to remain neutral. "That sounds like an amazing opportunity."

"It could be. The resources they have would allow us to take on projects we've always had to pass on." His exhaustion showed in every line of his face. "But the timing is..."

"Inconvenient?" I offered, when what I meant was heartbreaking.

"I've been trying to find ways to spend more time in Assjacket, not less."

I swallowed hard. "You should take it. We can make this work."

"Chloe, I—" His image froze, then pixelated. "—don't want to—" The audio cut out, his mouth still moving.

"Lincoln? I can't hear you."

His image dissolved into digital chaos, then the call dropped completely.

I stared at my blank phone screen, the sudden disconnection like a punch to the gut. The universe had a sick sense of timing—cutting Lincoln off right when we needed clarity most.

"Fantastic," I muttered, tossing my phone onto the nightstand.

Sleep was now a distant memory. I padded to my desk, flipped on the lamp, and pulled the manuscript toward me. If I couldn't fix my relationship uncertainties at midnight, I could at least fix dangling modifiers and plot holes.

Peacock pen in hand, I attacked the pages with surgical precision. One hour blurred into three as I lost myself in someone else's fictional problems instead of my own very real ones.

The rhythmic scratching of pen against paper unlocked a memory I'd buried years ago.

Twelve-year-old me, proudly showing my mother the short story that had won first place in the school competition.

Her distracted nod as she rushed to attend Jenny's dance recital.

"That's nice, dear. Put it on the fridge if you want. "

Meanwhile, Jenny's participation trophies earned dedicated shelf space and breathless praise. "Our little star!" they'd called her, while my academic achievements collected dust.

I shook my head, refocusing on the manuscript. The protagonist was facing her nemesis—a woman who'd stolen her identity. The irony wasn't lost on me. Jenny had always been better at being the daughter my parents wanted.

"Editing at three in the morning is how serial killers are born."

I jumped, nearly knocking over my coffee mug. Frosty stood in the doorway, his feathers rumpled from sleep, tiny reading glasses perched on his beak.

"Says the rooster who practices roundhouse kicks at dawn," I countered.

"That's different. That's art." He hopped onto the desk, examining the sea of red ink. "You're butchering this poor manuscript like it personally insulted your ancestors."

"I'm improving it."

"At three in the morning?"

I sighed, dropping my pen. "Lincoln's publishing company might be bought out. He'll be stuck in New York for a year. Maybe longer."

"Ah." Frosty settled beside my elbow. "And you think you're just a small-town diversion from his real life."

"When did you get your psychology degree?" I snapped, then immediately regretted it. "Sorry."

"You don't need a degree to recognize self-sabotage. You're trying to prove your worth through work because you're afraid you're not enough otherwise."

I blinked at him. "That was... surprisingly insightful."

"I contain multitudes." He straightened proudly. "Also, I watched Dr. Phil while you were sleeping yesterday."

I stared at Frosty, trying to process his armchair psychology. "So what exactly are you suggesting? That I just ignore the fact that Lincoln's entire life is in New York while I'm stuck in?—"

The distant rumble of an engine cut me off. At five in the morning in Assjacket, any vehicle sounded like an invasion.

"Are we being raided by the FBI?" I pushed back from my desk and moved to the window.

"Finally!" Frosty hopped excitedly to the windowsill. "They've come for my manifesto on chicken rights."

A delivery truck with a logo I didn't recognize crawled up my driveway, headlights cutting through the pre-dawn fog. The driver, a burly man with an impressive beard, struggled with something large in the back.

"You're not expecting anything, are you?" I asked Frosty.

"My samurai sword collection isn't due until Tuesday."

I rolled my eyes and headed for the door, wrapping my cardigan tighter against the morning chill. The delivery man looked relieved when I appeared.

"Ms. Woolsworth? Special delivery. Need a signature." He thrust a tablet at me while eyeing Frosty, who had followed me outside and was now performing what appeared to be tai chi on the porch railing.

After I signed, the man carefully unloaded a large rectangular package wrapped in multiple layers of protective material and marked "FRAGILE" in aggressive red lettering.

"What in the name of witchcraft is that?" Frosty circled the package once it was safely inside. "It's either a cursed artifact or the world's most pretentious toaster."

"It's from Lincoln." I recognized his handwriting on the shipping label.

"Ooh! Maybe it's a portal to his dimension. Or a teleportation device so you can visit New York without dealing with TSA!" Frosty pecked experimentally at the corner of the wrapping.

"Or maybe it's just a really big book." I carefully began removing the layers of bubble wrap and protective foam.

"No one sends books via specialty courier at dawn, Chloe. It's probably the preserved head of his last girlfriend."

"Your imagination is concerning." I pulled away the final layer of wrapping and gasped.

Inside was a glass display case, museum quality, containing a leather-bound first edition of "The Night Circus" – my absolute favorite novel. The book that had saved me during my darkest days at the family ice castle.

"Holy mother of egg whites," Frosty whispered reverently.

My fingers trembled as I found the note tucked alongside the case.

I stared at the note in my hands, my heart doing that annoying flutter thing that happened whenever Lincoln managed to surprise me. Which was happening with alarming frequency lately.

"Well?" Frosty hopped impatiently beside me. "Is it a ransom note? Secret coordinates to buried treasure? His secret cookie recipe?"

"It's from his private collection." My voice came out softer than intended as I read Lincoln's elegant handwriting:

Chloe - This first edition was part of my grandfather's collection.

Only 500 were printed with this binding, and this is number 7.

The author signed it at a private event in 1912.

I've kept it in my personal library for decades, but I realized it belongs with someone who truly understands its magic. Like you.

"Is that... are those actual tears forming in your cynical eye sockets?" Frosty peered up at me.

"Allergies," I muttered, carefully opening the case. The scent of aged paper and leather filled my senses.

With reverent fingers, I opened the cover. Inside, Lincoln had placed delicate bookmarks at various pages. I turned to the first one and found a passage about night gardens highlighted with a faint pencil mark:

"The circus arrives without warning..."

In the margin, Lincoln had written: This reminded me of you appearing in my life.

"Sweet crispy nuggets," Frosty whispered, genuinely moved. "The man's gone full Shakespearean for you."

I turned to each marked passage, finding similar notes connecting the story to our relationship. When I reached the final page, my breath caught. There, in his careful script:

"Distance is just geography. You're always with me."

My fingers hovered over the glass case. For once, my brain's sarcasm department had gone silent.

"You know," Frosty said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle, "some people spend their entire lives waiting for someone who speaks their language."

I touched the glass, allowing myself to feel the connection Lincoln had woven between us through literature. This wasn't just a rare book—it was a bridge between his world and mine.

"I should call him," I whispered.

"Maybe put on pants first," Frosty suggested. "Even for telephone romance, pants are generally advised."

I carefully placed the glass case on my bookshelf where the morning light would catch it without causing damage. Each time I glanced at it, something warm and unfamiliar expanded in my chest.

"If you keep smiling like that, your face might crack," Frosty remarked, arranging his feathers on the couch. "Don't you have that editing deadline tomorrow?"

"Shit." The manuscript. I'd been so absorbed in Lincoln's gift that I'd forgotten about the actual work part of our new arrangement.

I hurried to my desk where the fantasy manuscript lay waiting, my notes and edits covering nearly every page. Three days of intense focus had yielded surprising results—I'd finished the substantive edits yesterday. All that remained was finalizing my editorial letter.

"Did you know," I said, settling into my chair, "that the author used the word 'suddenly' thirty-seven times in one chapter?"

"The horror," Frosty deadpanned. "Did you also count their commas? Please say yes so I can stage an intervention."

"Mock all you want, but this book actually has potential." I pulled up my document of notes. "The protagonist's magical system is inconsistent, but the world-building is solid. And there's this subplot with a sentient library that's genuinely brilliant."

"Listen to you, all professional editor-like." Frosty hopped onto the desk. "Next you'll be wearing tweed and saying things like 'the metaphor is trite but salvageable.'"

"The metaphors are trite but salvageable," I replied, typing rapidly. "Also, the romance subplot needs serious work. Nobody falls in love that fast."

"Says the witch who's gone from hermit to career woman with boyfriend in record time."

I shot him a glare but couldn't argue the point. Instead, I focused on completing my editorial letter, carefully explaining my suggestions and highlighting the manuscript's strengths. Four hours later, I hit send—a full day ahead of schedule.

"Done," I announced, stretching my cramped fingers.

My phone pinged almost immediately. An email notification.

"That was fast," Frosty peered at my screen. "Did you break the internet?"

I opened the message, expecting an automated response. Instead, it was from the author:

Ms. Woolsworth,

I just received your edits and notes. I've worked with three different editors at major publishing houses, and none provided feedback this insightful or respectful of my vision.

Your suggestions for the library subplot especially opened up possibilities I hadn't considered.

If Lincoln will allow it, I'd like to request you specifically for the sequel.

Sincerely,

Marcus Wells

"Well, well, well," Frosty said, reading over my shoulder. "Looks like someone's found their calling."

My phone rang before I could respond. Lincoln's name flashed on the screen.