“What about when you fed me undercooked chicken, and I was out with food poisoning for a week?” I say pointedly.

He’s silent for one beat, then two. “But did you die?”

I gape at him. “I was so dehydrated from throwing up, I thought I saw God.”

“No, you saw me. And I’ve apologized.” His voice drops a level, and I can feel the guilt seeping out of him.

I bite the inside of my cheek, because it was a low blow. He stayed up with me the whole time, tying my hair back as I threw up my guts, brushing my teeth when I didn’t have the energy to, and then he carried me back to bed.

“Now you’re a master chef who’s taken me hostage,” I say with a joking edge.

The week after that, he began using all these cooking terminologies like sautéing and braising. Mickey refuses to admit it, but I have a hunch he started watching cooking videos. There’s no way he went from undercooking boiled chicken to making homemade empanadas without the internet.

A pause lingers between us. “Yet you haven’t attempted to take off the blindfold again.” I launch into defense mode and twist my arms out of his grip, just like he taught me. “Cut it out. That wasn’t an invitation,” he snaps, then lowers his voice and says, “But well done. Good technique.”

My skin heats from the praise. Please, Isabella, contain yourself.

“Walk or carry?”

My breath catches in my throat. “Tell me what—"

“One.”

“Mickey, seriously, I—"

“Two.”

“Why won’t you tell—" My words end with a shriek when strong arms move behind my knees and sweep me off my feet. As it always does when it comes to Mickey, my body betrays me, and without thought, I wrap my hands behind his neck. “No!”

He chuckles. “Too late. You’re at my mercy now.”

I dissolve into his hold. Even though layers are separating us, we may as well be skin-to-skin. I’m on fire, and the only person who can put me out is him, even though he’s what ignited me. But this is a dangerous game. Something so simple shouldn’t unwind me so much.

“Put me down right now, Roman Riviera.”

I swear I hear him growl. “Do you want to find out if I have duct tape, too?”

My mouth clamps shut.

No… he wouldn’t, would he? Surely not…

“Good girl,” he muses.

I’m about to say something else. Maybe something snarky, but I really don’t want to find out if a roll of duct tape is hidden inside his leather jacket.

That kind of kidnapping scenario would be a little too much for me.

Just a little.

Okay, a lot.

The rhythmic thump of his feet along the ground and the soft sway of his movements could lull me to sleep. I admit that I’m disappointed when he lowers me to the ground. I have to pry my fingers apart to let go of his neck, and before I let go of him fully, I miss his warmth. I didn’t exactly dress for the outdoors, so the riding jacket doesn’t do enough to stop the autumn chill from sinking into my bones.

“Stay,” he orders. I lift my hands up to the blindfold, but he slaps them away. “Don’t touch.”

“I’m not a dog,” I seethe.

“Mmhmm,” he hums.

I grumble under my breath and cross my arms to preserve warmth while a bunch of banging and grunting happens a few feet to my right.

Please don’t be a dead body.

Please don’t be a dead body.

Please don’t be a dead body.

On my next inhale, a low whine whirls at the bottom of my lungs, and I freeze.

Oh...

Shit…

Mickey better not have heard that.

I swallow and quietly clear my throat, even though I know it will do nothing to eliminate the wheeze. It’s still worth a try. If he hears me, he’s going to be absolutely livid. Not only did I forget to bring my inhaler, but I haven’t taken it in at least three days. Which just so happens to be the timeframe for my asthma to kick in if left unmedicated.

Of course, Mickey knows this.

He knows freaking everything there is to know about me.

I jolt when his fingers wrap around my elbow. I didn’t even hear him coming, too lost in my panicked thoughts.

“After you, Princess.”

I shuffle across the ground hesitantly, attempting to keep my breaths short so he doesn’t hear the hitch in each of them. The itch in my lungs grows, and I have to resist the urge to clear my throat every three seconds.

Mickey gently guides me a few more steps before stopping and twisting my body so he has me where he wants me. It’s quieter here, the insects’ songs dulled. My nose twitches as I try to find any answer about our whereabouts from scent alone, but all I can smell is Mickey, fresh earth, and the lingering scent of hay.

He takes his time untying the cloth around my head as I hold my breath without much thought, too scared to breathe with him so close.

My lungs scream and heave—and holy crap, it’s so itchy. They feel like they’re filled with the ticklish, crawling insects that sing outside.

There has to be a way to reach inside myself and scratch my lungs.

I blink a couple of times from the burst of sudden light. Then I blink some more to make sure I’m seeing things correctly.

I take one step forward.

And another, spinning in a slow circle to take everything in. Fairy lights twinkle, wrapped around pillars and hanging from beam to beam. Pillows are stacked on top of a thick woolen blanket laid on the concrete floor. Next to it are boxes of blankets and pillows, as well as every single one of my favorite snacks. I turn and spot a white sheet hanging on the wall, along with a projector a couple of feet in front of it.

There’s a soft whirring from somewhere—a generator, I’m guessing. It’s the only way the light bulb would work unless the abandoned horror house has electricity.

How did he get all this stuff here on his bike?

He must have spent hours here, cleaning and setting everything up. The walls are free of spider webs, and not a single strand of hay can be seen.

I completely forget I’m struggling to breathe as I gape at my surroundings. No one has ever done anything like this for me before. I turn to find Mickey leaning against the door with his hands stuffed into his pockets. “It’s so beautiful,” I gasp.

He shrugs with his typical confident attitude. “I know.”

He didn’t need to do all of this for me. This is going above and beyond my wildest dreams. I did nothing to deserve any of it. “You did all this for me?”

Easing himself from the doorway, my heart picks up as he closes the distance. I try taking smaller breaths with the purpose of making sure my static chest stays silent. I want to wrap my arms around him and press my lips to his plush ones so he knows how much I appreciate this.

So he knows I see him—all of him—even when no one else does.

I meet his intense stare as he gazes down at me, looking completely lost in whatever he must see in me. “When will you realize there is nothing I wouldn’t do for you?”

My lips part, and I swallow a cough. “I can’t believe you did all this. How much did all this even cost? How long did it take? When did you have time to do all of this?”

He leans forward and lowers his voice like he’s telling me a secret. “I’m a god.”

“You’d be a really shitty one. You’ll probably do the opposite of whatever people pray for.” He’s downplaying what he’s done, like he always does.

“Who do you pray to?”

I narrow my eyes, confused. “I don’t pray.”

“You’d get on your knees for me if I asked. Does that make me your god, Princess?”

I choke on an inhale, then the critters crawling in my lungs let loose. The first cough that rips through my throat is a sputter. The second has me hunched over, gasping for air, only to cough instead.

Each one is more painful than the last, and my stomach clenches like I’m about to vomit, but nothing comes out. Tears prick my eyes, and everything is cold but burning at the same time.