Page 13 of Loco

Mr. Calloway: I got one. But you gotta bake me something in return.

Me: Deal.

I looked up to find Roque smirking at his own phone. “What?”

He held up his screen. “Seems like half the neighborhood already knows you broke your house. They’re sending advice on how to fix it, how to get rid of the water that’s apparently alreadyseeping under your front door and freezing, and offering towels, dehumidifiers, and firewood so you can keep the fire going and stop it freezing inside the house. Seems people know you better than you know yourself.”

I groaned. “Of course they do.”

Roque grinned, going back to vacuuming up water. “On the bright side, at least now you don’t have to explain it to everyone individually.”

I grabbed another soggy pillow and lobbed it at him. This time, I didn’t miss.

Roque

After hours of fixing as much as I could and getting rid of as much water as possible, I was exhausted. Our neighbors had come through for her, though, dropping off a total of seven humidifiers that were now powered by an extension cord running from my home that we’d buried under the snow. We’d also set a small fire and some portable heaters that’d also been dropped off to keep her home warm. My electricity bill would be hell, but at least we’d managed to stop more damage to the property lemon she’d bought.

By the time we trudged through the snow to my place, Sayla looked like she was mentally preparing herself for war. Not a physical, weapons-drawn battle, but the kind of war where she had to accept that she owed me for saving her from her sinking ship of a house. I was going to savor every second of this.

“Make yourself at home,” I said, kicking the snow off my boots as I stepped inside. “Oh, wait, you already are.”

She shot me a glare that could’ve melted the blizzard outside. “Enjoy this while it lasts, Roque. I’m out of here the second I can get a plumber and someone to patch up my ceiling.”

I smirked. “Sure, sure.”

I’d had a thing for Sayla longer than I cared to admit, and the worst part? I hadn’t even been trying to fight it. There was no point. She was in my blood, under my skin, and lodged in my brain like an unshakable tune. The problem was that life—mostly work—kept getting in the way of me doing anything about it properly. And when I did try? Well, let’s just say my execution had been… less than stellar.

Take our one-nighters, for example. In my head, they were supposed to be my way of showing her I was interested, a stepping stone toward something more. In reality? It had backfired entirely, cementing me in her mind as the guy who didn’t do commitment. Not exactly the grand romantic gesture I’d envisioned. So, I’d switched tactics, trying a different approach that included being around, making her laugh, and finding every ridiculous excuse to help her out, even if it meant rescuing her from her disaster-prone tendencies.

The truth was, I knew I’d screwed up with her. If I could go back and do things differently, I would. But life didn’t come with a rewind button, and the only thing I could do now was prove, in my own stubborn, slow-burning way, that I wasn’t going anywhere. Even if that meant letting her turn my thermostat up to tropical levels—which she was currently doing. Because when it came to Sayla? I was playing the long game, and for once in my life, I wasn’t in a hurry to win.

Before she could threaten me with bodily harm, Lynyrd and Skynyrd bolted into the room like a furry missile, skidding toa stop in front of Sayla. Right behind them, Dog strolled in with the unbothered attitude of a king inspecting his kingdom. The moment Sayla crouched down, Lynyrd and Skynyrd wiggled their entire bodies in excitement, and Dog, in a move that could only be described as betrayal, rubbed his head against her leg like she was his new favorite person.

“Unbelievable,” I muttered as Dog flopped onto his back, all four legs in the air, demanding belly rubs. “I provide food, shelter, and unconditional love, and yet you turn on me the second she walks in?”

Sayla smirked as she ran her fingers through Dog’s fur. “Maybe they just have good taste.”

I rolled my eyes and headed toward the kitchen, turning the thermostat back down again to a normal person’s preferred temperature instead of Hades-worthy temperatures, grumbling under my breath about loyalty.

The first nightwent about as smoothly as expected when two people with unresolved history and entirely different living habits were forced into close quarters. It started with the thermostat war.

Sayla, apparently, wasn’t built for the Arctic, cranking the heat up to what could only be described as tropical. On the other hand, I preferred not to sweat inside my house and wasn’t about to let my utility bill skyrocket because she didn’t believe in multiple layers of clothing—which I’d risked my life to get from her bedroom— and blankets. I’d even lit a fire and moved the couch closer to it, but that apparently wasn’t enough for her.

“This is a perfectly reasonable temperature,” she insisted, standing in front of the thermostat as she dramatically pulled her hoodie tighter.

I kept my hand over it so she couldn’t mess with it again. “For a greenhouse,” I shot back, crossing my arms.

“Maybe I don’t want to turn into a human popsicle.”

“And maybe I don’t want to sweat in my own home like I’m on the surface of the sun.”

Lynyrd sneezed from his bed by the fireplace as Skynyrd snored, and Dog, who had somehow managed to sprawl across an entire chair like he paid rent here, flicked his tail in what I could only assume was judgment.

“Could we at least turn it up, say, ten degrees?” she asked, pouting. It was already on seventy-five, and with the fire, the house was fighting back against the freezing, blizzard climate outside. I was close to pulling out some shorts and a T-shirt, but it seemed wrong, given the weather.

“No.” I was sticking firm to this.

Rolling her eyes at me, she walked back to the couch, shooting over her shoulder, “You’ve got to fall asleep at some point.”

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