My body is filled to the brim with simple joy.

Inevitably, we close in on land. If we had any other destination in mind, perhaps that would be a disappointment. But up ahead I catch sight of my house, and a new sort of euphoria moves in to replace the old.

Home. Sweet, lovely, lonely home.

We touch down in my backyard.

I’m back.

Never want to leave.

I really don’t. I want to drink my wine, stare out at the ocean, think deep thoughts, sleep beneath my sheets.

I want to do all that … but I want to do it with Des.

The Bargainer and I head over to my sliding glass door. Des has only to stare at the handle, and with a snick, the door unlocks itself and slides open. Tentatively, I step inside.

Home is a house filled with sandy floors, chipped counters, and now, my soulmate. He stands in my house like he resides there—like he’s always resided there—and the way he looks around, I have every reason to believe he intends to make this place ours.

Ours.

Not going to get over that.

“Where are all of our things?” he asks.

There’s that word again. Our.

I move through my (our?) home, expecting things to be different. It feels like ages since I was last here.

“In the attic.” I couldn’t bear to part with all those trinkets Des and I collected during my junior year of high school, but I also couldn’t bear to look at them. The pain of his absence always sharpened when I saw those physical reminders.

Des clicks his tongue. “Cherub, we’re going to have to change that.”

He lifts his hand, and I hear a few distant thumps, then the sound of scraping.

Less than a minute later, a weathered box floats into the living room, scattering dust motes as it heads our way. It plops to the floor a few feet in front of me.

For several seconds all is still; suddenly, the lid pops open, causing me to jolt.

And then the procession begins. The prayer flags, the Venetian masks, the painted gourd and the silks, they float out of the box one by one, lining themselves up on the floor.

Once our old memorabilia has been removed from the container, my tasteful decorations are lifted from the walls, pushed off tables, and cleared from shelves. They amble through the air, then stack themselves neatly into the box. After they’re all settled inside, the cardboard flaps fold over them, and the box levitates off the floor. It cants drunkenly back and forth as it heads back the way it came.

I raise an eyebrow but say nothing.

Des smiles, a calculating spark in his eye.

All at once, the objects the two of us collected together—every shot glass and postcard, every hand drawing and note—lift into the air. For several seconds, the items hover in midair. Then, like an explosion, they scatter across the house.

Des finds a place for it all. On walls, on shelves, tucked away in cupboards, dangling from the ceiling.

I believe this is a fairy’s version of peeing on his territory. And my heart is hurting so damned badly.

All of these things are testaments to our friendship. Because that’s what this has always been. Long before I knew Des was my mate, I knew he was my friend. And even though I wanted him in a distinctly un-friend-like way, that’s all the two of us were for the better part of a year.

I’m taking in my “new” decorations when the King of the Night comes up behind me.

He kisses the juncture where my jaw meets my neck. “We’ll go on more adventures,” Des promises, “buy more trinkets, experience more new places together—both in this world and in the other.”

I turn around. “Why did you bring me here?” I ask.

Out of all the places in all the worlds, he chose to bring me here.

Des has the universe in his eyes. “Because I love you and this is where you’re happiest.”

That’s not true. Happiness isn’t a place, it’s a person—more specifically, the one across from me.

The Bargainer leads me over to the couch. “Now, I was thinking that since we finished watching Harry Potter, we needed a new series to binge on together …”

I spend the evening wrapped up in the Bargainer’s arms, the two of us splayed out along my couch. My coffee table is a mess of greasy pizza, popcorn, and Raisinets—all casualties of our movie night.

Game of Thrones plays on the T.V., and it’s clear this is Des’s kind of show. The dude is hardcore invested.

I trail my fingers over his inked arm. I’m supposed to be paying attention to the show, but I can’t get over the joy I feel. Des is reclining here, on my couch, holding me against him as he watches a show from my living room. Earlier he ran his hands over my chipped countertops, and his boots have dragged sand across my living room. Little pieces of himself are now scattered all over the place. And he’s here, not because he wants me to repay the favors I owe, but because he’s mine.

I close my eyes and relish this. More than the Otherworld, it’s this moment that seems the dream. Everything that’s been thrown at me was so much easier to palate in a world where cities floated and night reigned eternal. But here in the normal world, a man like Des doesn’t belong, and definitely not with a girl like me.

I want to cackle for outmaneuvering fate. Because I freaking got him, the bad boy who was always so out of reach.

The two of us binge watch a couple more episodes, but somewhere along the way, the atmosphere changes.

First, it’s a few light kisses Des brushes against my hairline and a few more that I press to the base of his palm. Then it’s the soft stroke of his fingers petting my skin, and the restless way my body reacts to the touch. But it’s not until he clicks the T.V. off that I even realize the Bargainer is half as distracted as I’ve been.

“Truth or dare?” he whispers against my ear.

I bite back a smile. “Both.”

Des lifts me off the couch then, turning me in his arms so that I can wrap my legs around his narrow hips. I lock my arms behind his neck, playing with the ends of his hair.

He searches my face. “Truth: Tell me, sweet little siren, how many nights did you get yourself off to the thought of me when we were apart?”

I should’ve known Des would ask something dirty. His magic settles beneath my skin, demanding I answer this embarrassing question.

“I don’t know,” I say.

Not good enough. The Bargainer’s magic is getting more demanding, twisting itself around my windpipes.

“Nearly every night.” I glare at him as I answer.

“And what did you imagine?” His magic is still there, pressing against my throat.

“What do you think I imagined?” I say sarcastically.

He just waits. His power does the rest, closing in on me.

“I already gave you one answer,” I say. He’s already getting a two-for-one deal from this game, and now he’s pressing his luck with another question.

“It’s in my nature to take advantage,” he says, running a finger down my cleavage. “Now, you were saying … ?”

I press my lips together, though I know it’s pointless. The words spill out of me anyway.

“I imagined you taking me in just about every position possible. I imagined your weight settling on me, your hips between mine. I imagined your evil-boy body fucking mine over and over and over again. I imagined it sweet and nice, I imagined it rough and kinky. I imagined you when I was alone … and when I was with other men—I even called out your name once. I imagined it all, and it still didn’t hold a flame against the reality of you.”