My first thought was that I’d miscounted floors after another punishing shift. My second was that someone had broken in and rearranged my life with unsettling courtesy. Both ideas fell apart when I spotted Oliver’s crooked crayon drawing still taped to the refrigerator beside my chipped ceramic mug.
The apartment was undeniably mine—yet strangely transformed. Blankets that usually lay in messy heaps were folded neatly. Candy wrappers had vanished. The sink, typically overflowing with proof of survival, shone empty and spotless.
Then I heard movement in the kitchen.
A tall man turned slowly from the stove, steadying himself with a medical brace secured around his knee. For a breathless second, my mind refused to connect the stranger with the quiet domestic scene unfolding before me.
He was wearing one of my oversized gray T-shirts, the sleeves hanging awkwardly past his elbows. A loaf pan rested on the counter, and beside it sat a plate radiating the scent of melted cheese and herbs.
He raised his hands immediately, palms open.
