Page 17 of Purring for Her Lion (Harmony Glen #5)

LIANA

I don’t remember falling asleep at my kitchen table again, but I definitely remember waking up in Roarke’s bed—the third time this week. The sheets smell like him, a blend of pine and that warm, musky scent that’s uniquely his.

Sunlight filters through unfamiliar curtains—practical blackout ones that he installed after I complained about waking up too early. I stretch, my muscles protesting after another marathon baking session, and wonder when exactly this became our normal.

Me working until I literally collapse, him carrying me to his house like some kind of oversized, furry rescue service, and neither of us ever talking about it.

The digital clock on his nightstand reads 3:17 PM. Right on schedule.

This has been our routine for what, two weeks now?

Ever since Nugget outgrew my house and screeching every time he got excited about seeing a squirrel.

I call them my “overnight shifts”—cooking, cleaning, and working at my place until around 7 AM, at which point I’m usually face-down in whatever dough I’ve been kneading.

And then, somehow, I wake up here. In Roarke’s bed. In Roarke’s house.

I never actually witness the transfer. It’s like some kind of strange teleportation magic where I close my eyes in one place and open them in another.

Except the magic is just a seven-foot lion-man who apparently can lift me without disturbing my sleep, which is impressive considering I once woke up because a moth landed on my window three rooms away.

The strangest part isn’t even the mysteriously migrating sleeping arrangements. It’s how natural it all feels. Like we’ve been doing this forever instead of just a couple of weeks.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed—his massive, custom-built bed that makes me feel like I’m drowning in mattress—and pad toward the bathroom. His bathroom, which is now also somehow my bathroom.

Because all my stuff is here.

Not just the basics. Not just a spare toothbrush and generic soap. No. My exact brands.

My specific facial cleanser that I have to order online because nowhere in Harmony Glen carries it. My particular shampoo that smells like coconut and vanilla. Even my weird Filipino papaya soap that my lola used to send me is sitting on a special little dish.

I stare at the neat row of products, all arranged in the precise order I use them. I didn’t bring these here. I never packed an overnight bag. I certainly didn’t organize them with this kind of military precision.

Which means Roarke did.

Roarke went to my bathroom, identified my exact skincare routine, bought duplicates of everything, and arranged them in the correct order of use.

My heart does a complicated little dance in my chest that I refuse to analyze too closely.

After showering and going through my mysteriously duplicated skincare routine, I find clean clothes folded on a chair near the bed. They’re mine, but freshly laundered, smelling faintly of whatever detergent Roarke uses that manages to be both unscented yet smells of him.

I don’t question this anymore either. The first time it happened, I spent twenty minutes having an existential crisis about a lion-man handling my underwear. Now it’s just another Tuesday. Or Thursday. Whatever day it is.

Once dressed, I head downstairs and out the door, crossing the now well-worn path between his house and mine. There’s an actual stone walkway now, lined with herb gardens in neat boxwoods just as I’d envisioned them on both sides.

I don’t remember approving this construction project, but it appeared sometime last month and I have to admit, it’s nice not trudging through mud when it rains.

My house is quiet when I enter, but spotlessly clean despite the baking marathon I pulled last night.

The mixing bowls I’d left soaking are dried and put away.

The flour I definitely spilled all over the counter is gone.

Even the sticky ube jam pot that I’d planned to tackle later has been scrubbed clean.

I should feel invaded, maybe. Annoyed at someone messing with my space. Instead, there’s just a warm, comfortable feeling settling in my chest that I’m still not ready to name.

I fire up my laptop at the kitchen table, diving back into the data analytics project I’d abandoned when sleep claimed me.

Remote work is a blessing—I can analyze UX patterns while covered in flour and wearing chicken-print pajama pants, and none of my corporate clients are any wiser.

I lose myself in code and spreadsheets until the shadows in the kitchen grow long.

Right on cue, the door opens at 6:30 PM. Roarke’s massive frame fills the doorway, Nugget’s blue head poking around his legs. The dragon is almost pony-sized now, his scales shimmering in the evening light as he bounds toward me with the enthusiasm of a much smaller creature.

“Careful,” Roarke warns, but it’s unnecessary. Nugget has learned to temper his excitement around me, gently butting his head against my hip instead of tackling me to the ground like he did that one time that we Don’t Talk About.

“Hey, baby boy,” I coo, scratching under Nugget’s chin where his scales are softest. He makes a rumbling sound deep in his throat, eyes closing in bliss. “Did you have a good day terrorizing the townsfolk?”

“We visited the lake,” Roarke says, moving to the fridge with casual familiarity. He pulls out ingredients I don’t remember buying and starts assembling them on the counter. “He’s learning to swim. The scales on his left side are waterproof, but the right side still needs development.”

“Swimming? Really?” I run my hand along Nugget’s flank, feeling the subtle difference in his scales. “I thought dragons and water didn’t mix.”

“Common misconception,” Roarke says, his back to me as he begins chopping vegetables with precise, efficient movements. “Blue mountain dragons are semi-aquatic. They hunt fish in alpine lakes.”

“You’re going to be a little fish-catching machine, aren’t you?” I tell Nugget, who preens under the attention. “Though I’m not sure the local fishing enthusiasts will appreciate the competition.”

“The bait shop owner already offered him a job,” Roarke says, completely deadpan. “Said he could scare fish into the shallow waters for the tourists.”

I laugh, trying to picture Nugget as a fishing assistant. “And what did he say to that offer?”

“He ate the man’s hat.”

“Nugget!” I gasp, though I can’t help the laughter bubbling up. The dragon does not look a tiny bit apologetic. In fact, he looks quite pleased with himself.

“The brim only,” Roarke clarifies, the corner of his mouth twitching in what I’ve learned to recognize as his version of a smile. “We paid for it. And the man got a story to tell for the next twenty years.”

This is how our evenings go now. Roarke returns with Nugget and shares the highlights of their day while preparing dinner. Not helping me prepare dinner. Not watching me cook. Actually making dinner himself, in my kitchen, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I watch him move around my kitchen with easy confidence, noting how he seems to know where everything is.

More than that—things are in different places than where I originally put them.

Higher shelves have been cleared for my most-used items. A step stool I don’t remember buying sits in the corner.

The spice rack has been reorganized by frequency of use rather than my previous system of “wherever it landed when I unpacked.”

My gaze travels beyond the kitchen, really taking in the subtle changes to my house for the first time.

New curtains that match my color scheme but are definitely better quality than what I picked out.

Reinforced floorboards where Nugget’s weight was starting to cause creaking.

A completely new chair at my desk, ergonomically designed and actually comfortable, unlike the yard sale find I’d been using.

“Did you renovate my entire house when I wasn’t looking?” I ask, gesturing around the room.

Roarke doesn’t look up from his chopping. “Not the entire house. Just the necessary adjustments.”

“Necessary adjustments,” I repeat, laughing softly. “Is that what we’re calling the magical appearing bathroom fixtures and the suddenly reinforced supporting wall in the hallway?”

He glances at me, one eyebrow raised. “You noticed.”

“I’m sleep-deprived, not blind,” I tell him, though honestly, I’ve been so busy with Nugget and work that I probably wouldn’t have noticed if he’d painted the place neon pink. “The question is when? When do you find time to do all this between taking care of Nugget and running your clinic?”

“Time management,” he says simply, as if that explains everything.

I watch him work for a moment longer, this massive, efficient lion-man who has somehow integrated himself so completely into my life that I can’t remember what it was like before him. Before Nugget. Before this strange, comfortable arrangement that we never discuss.

“You know,” I say, trying to keep my tone casual, “you don’t have to do all this. The renovations, the cooking, the whatever it is we’re doing with the sleeping arrangements.”

His hands pause momentarily. “I know.”

“I just mean—you must have better things to do than babysit a chaotic human and her pet dragon.” I’m rambling now, but I can’t seem to stop.

“It’s been two months of this weird shift-work parenting thing, and you haven’t had a single day to yourself.

Don’t you want to, I don’t know, go on a vacation?

Or a date? Or literally anything that doesn’t involve me falling asleep in random places and you having to carry me to bed? ”

He turns to face me fully now, those golden eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

“No,” he says simply.

“No...you don’t want to go on vacation? Or no, you don’t want to go on dates?” I’m stalling, and we both know it.