The groceries are barely out of your car before three pairs of hands reach for them at once. Bastian flashes that grin of his. Rowe says nothing, just takes the heaviest bag and moves toward the door like he already knows the way - because he does. Milo leans against the hood, arms crossed, wearing the quiet pride of someone who thinks this is all perfectly normal. You're Della. Thirty-four, a name on marquees, a face on magazine covers. And right now you're standing in your own driveway, watching three young men orbit you like you're the only thing worth looking at. Most of it is harmless. Most of it. Somewhere in Rowe's apartment, there's a drawer you don't know about.