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The heater groans against Sacramento’s January chill, rattling the windows of Patrick Jane’s absurdly tasteful loft like an afterthought. Kimball Cho doesn’t ask why there’s a damp, shivering lamb curled in Jane’s leather armchair when he arrives—just raises an eyebrow and hangs his coat with military precision.
“Her name’s Beatrice,” Jane announces, grinning like he’s unveiled the Mona Lisa. He’s bundled the thing in one of his cashmere scarves, its tiny hooves poking through the weave. The lamb sneezes. Cho blinks. Jane’s already bustling toward the kitchen, tossing over his shoulder, “You’re lactose intolerant, right? I got oat milk.”
Cho doesn’t correct him. The espresso machine hisses like an offended cat as Jane wrestles with an avalanche of cocoa tins. The counter’s a disaster: star-shaped marshmallows dusted in edible gold, a smeared jar of chili-infused caramel, peppermint sticks stabbed into a mason jar like tiny spears. Beatrice bleats. Cho sits.
“You stole a livestock animal,” Cho says, flat.
Jane presses a steaming mug into his hands—whipped cream sculpted into a swirl so perfect it looks Photoshopped. “Rescued,” he corrects cheerfully.
The cocoa burns Cho’s tongue first, then the chili, then the caramel. Beatrice chews on his shoelace. It’s, statistically, the least weird Tuesday he’s had this month.