Every Other Week

A Steamy MM Divorced Dads Romance
by Milo Hart

Available at all major retailers

Pairing: MM
Heat: 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ Inferno
Series: Standalone (Bellwick, Massachusetts)
Tropes: Divorced Dads, Single Dads, Neighbors to Lovers, Shared Wall, Same Custody Schedule, Secret Relationship, Relationship Rules, Forced Proximity, Over 40, First Time Bottoming, Late Bloomer, Praise, Body Worship, Light Bondage, Safe Word, Switch Dynamic (Both Vers), Mutual Pining, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Decent Exes, No Cheating, HEA

Two divorced dads. One shared wall. Five rules they swear they’ll never break.

Ben Fletcher has spent sixteen years holding the door for everyone. Now he’s forty-two, freshly divorced, and alone every other week in half of a 1920s duplex, still cooking pasta for three out of habit.

Then Adrian Shaw moves into the other half in a January sleetstorm, loses a fight with a mattress, and turns out to be on the exact same custody schedule. Same Sunday at five. Same empty house. Same few inches of plaster between their beds.

Those walls are very thin. Adrian finds that out the night he hears Ben say his name through one.

So they make rules. Off weeks only. The kids don’t know. Nobody knows. Nobody stays the night. And one Adrian adds himself: Either of us can walk away. No hard feelings.

It’s the perfect arrangement. Lunch in the laundry room with the window propped open. Crossword clues by text that are absolutely not about anything. A dining room Ben finally uses for the first time in eleven years.

Right up until Adrian wants more than the empty weeks. And Ben, who has never once asked anyone for anything, has to decide whether he’s allowed to want something for himself, out loud, with the kids in the room.

Every Other Week is a steamy contemporary MM divorced-dads romance with neighbors to lovers, a secret relationship, a first time bottoming at forty-two, two very different kids who invent board games and design libraries, a green spiral-bound crossword book, both men vers, and a guaranteed happily ever after. Dual POV. Standalone.

You’ll love this book if you enjoy:

✅ Two divorced dads on the exact same every-other-week custody schedule, sharing one very thin wall
✅ “For the record, these walls are very thin.” The text that starts everything
✅ Five rules in a phone note, and the only one Adrian wrote, which was always a door
✅ A first time bottoming at forty-two, praise, body worship, and a man finally asked what he wants
✅ Both men vers, a dryer at lunchtime, a dining table, a green silk tie and a safeword
✅ A crossword-clue text thread that gets filthier and then softer
✅ Leo, ten, who invents board games with thirty-one rules, and Sophie, twelve, who builds a library with a spiral ramp
✅ Decent exes, a sister who refuses to tell him it’s fine, and a printed calendar written in pen
✅ Single dads who are good dads, and learning that being a good father doesn’t mean being invisible
✅ No cheating, 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ heat, HEA guaranteed

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⚠️ Content Warning: This novel contains explicit sexual content (graphic MM scenes, including oral sex, anal sex, rimming, solo scenes, frottage, edging and orgasm control, praise, light bondage with a tie and a safeword, wrist-holding, and semi-public encounters in a laundry room and a kitchen; all on-page sex is between consenting adults). It also includes divorce and co-parenting, financial stress over a family home, parental conflict in childhood (discussed), a child’s illness, a third-act separation, alcohol, and strong language. No cheating, no sexual violence, no dub-con. Intended for readers 18+.

📖 Read Chapter One Free

Not sure yet? Read all of Chapter One right here.

Chapter One: Ben

The whole box went in before Ben noticed.

A full pound of rigatoni hit the boiling water with a hiss, and he stood at the stove holding the empty cardboard like it had betrayed him personally.

A pound. For one man. On a Sunday.

He knew the math so well it had stopped being math. Two adults, plus one twelve-year-old who claimed she wasn’t hungry and then ate like a linebacker. A pound, plus a handful for her second helping. He hadn’t added the handful, at least. That was something. A therapist would probably call it progress.

He didn’t have a therapist. He had a sister who called him every Sunday at seven to ask if he was “doing the thing where you clean the baseboards,” and a daughter who’d climbed into her other father’s car an hour ago with her backpack over one shoulder and said, “Bye, Dad. Don’t be weird.”

“When am I weird?”

“You’re about to be. I can see it starting.”

Then the headlights had swept the kitchen and she was gone, and the sleet had picked up, and now Ben Fletcher was forty-two years old and staring into a pot of pasta for three like it might explain the last eighteen months.

He could fish some out. He could put it in Tupperware. He could eat rigatoni for four days and tell Jo he was meal prepping, which was the kind of thing well-adjusted divorced men said.

He stirred it instead and listened to the house.

Fourteen Linden Street was the left half of a 1920s duplex, two stories of brick and good bones with a shared wall down the middle. He and Nathan had bought it eleven years ago, when Sophie was a baby who screamed if you stopped walking. Ben had loved it on sight. The crown molding. The built-ins. The way the light came through the stair window at four in the afternoon and made the whole hallway look like honey.

It was a lot of house for one man and a calendar.

Through the kitchen window, something beeped.

Ben leaned over the sink. A rental truck was reversing up the shared driveway, hazards blinking orange through the sleet, its back end swinging in a slow, terrible arc toward his car.

“No,” Ben told it. “No, no, you have the whole — there’s a whole curb —”

The truck stopped about four inches from his bumper. The engine cut. The driver’s door opened and a man climbed down into the slush, looked at the four inches, and nodded once like he’d meant to do it.

The other half of the house had been empty since October, when the Kowalskis left for Arizona and a dry heat that would, Mrs. Kowalski said, finally fix her knees. Ben had watched a parade of real estate photographers and one very lost dog walker go in and out. He’d assumed it would sell to a young couple with a ring light. He had not braced himself for anyone in particular.

The man went around to the back of the truck and hauled up the door.

He was wearing a gray sweater that had stopped being a sweater about twenty minutes ago and become a wet animal. No coat. No hat. He dragged out the ramp, walked up into the dark of the truck, and came back down a moment later with a queen mattress bent over his shoulder like a hostage.

It went fine for six feet.

Then the mattress caught the wind, folded in half, and swallowed him.

Through the glass, faintly, Ben heard: “Absolutely not. No. Don’t you dare —”

The mattress dared.

Ben turned the burner down to a simmer, grabbed his rain jacket off the hook, and was outside before he’d technically decided anything. This was a thing about him. Jo called it a condition.

The sleet stung his face. The man had gotten himself out from under the mattress and was standing over it in the driveway with his hands on his hips, breathing hard, steam coming off his shoulders.

“Need a hand?” Ben said.

The man turned.

Mid-forties, maybe. Lean. Stubble gone mostly salt. Hair dark with water at the crown and silver at the sides where it was plastered to his temples. A pair of reading glasses was hooked into the neck of the ruined sweater, somehow still there, somehow the only dry thing on him.

He looked Ben over, top to bottom, in one unhurried pass.

“I need several,” he said. “I’ll take one.”

His voice was low and dry and very calm for a man who’d just lost a fight to bedding.

“Ben,” Ben said. “Fourteen.”

“That’s either your address or your age, and you’re very tall for fourteen.”

Ben laughed before he could stop it. “Address.”

“Adrian. Sixteen. Also the address.” He held out a hand. His palm was cold and wet and his grip was firm, his fingers long enough to wrap most of the way around Ben’s. “Before you ask, the movers I booked had a contract that ended at five and they honored it like a sacred vow. My friend who was going to help saw the forecast and remembered he has a bad back. I have a truck until nine a.m. and nothing in the house but a lamp.”

“You moved in January.”

“My landlord sold my last place in November. The timing was his idea. I had very little say in it.” He nudged the mattress with his foot. “Are you good on the foot end?”

“I’m good on any end.”

It was out of his mouth before he heard it.

Adrian’s eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. Nothing else moved.

“Mattress,” Ben said. “Any end of the mattress.”

“I understood you.”

They got it up between them. Ben took the heavy end without discussing it, because he was six foot one and built like a man who’d carried furniture up stairs his whole life, and Adrian walked backward toward the porch with the light end and a perfectly straight face.

The front door of sixteen was propped open with a box labeled KITCHEN — USEFUL.

Stepping inside was like walking into his own house in a dream. Same narrow hallway, same honey-colored floorboards, same stair window. Except the stairs were on the left instead of the right. Everything was flipped, a mirror image, and Ben’s whole body tilted trying to correct for it.

“This is unsettling,” he said.

“You have the other half?”

“I have the other half. My staircase is over there.” He nodded at the wall. “Through there, I mean. Your stairs and my stairs are back to back.”

“So if I fall down mine, you’ll hear it.”

“I’ll hear it and I’ll come help.”

“Good to know.” Adrian took the first step up, backward, eyes on the mattress. “Is that what you do? Come help?”

“Apparently.”

They got it up the stairs with only one bad moment at the landing, when the mattress bowed and pinned Ben’s hand against the banister, and Adrian said, “Hold on, hold on,” and leaned his whole weight in to free it. For two seconds they were pressed together with a queen pillow-top between them, Adrian’s wet shoulder against Ben’s chest, close enough that Ben could smell rain and wool and some kind of soap that was green and sharp.

Then the mattress gave, and they were moving again, and Ben’s hand throbbed like it had been somewhere it shouldn’t.

The front bedroom was bare except for a long, flat cardboard box leaning against the wall. SOME ASSEMBLY REQUIRED, it said cheerfully, over a photo of a bed frame being enjoyed by a couple in matching linen.

They dropped the mattress on the floor. It flopped down with a great sigh of air.

“That’s your bed?” Ben said.

“That’s my bed in theory. Tonight it’s a floor bed. I’m forty-five. I’ll be fine.”

“You will absolutely not be fine. You’ll be on a mattress on a hardwood floor in January.”

“I’ve slept in worse places.”

“Name one.”

“My marriage,” Adrian said, and went back downstairs.

Ben stood there a second, absurdly pleased, and then he looked around the room and something cold went down his spine.

The wall the mattress was against. The plaster, the old crack running up near the outlet. On the other side of it, maybe eight inches of lath and brick and nothing, was Ben’s bedroom. His bed. His headboard.

He did the floor plan in his head because that was his job, nine to five, turning rooms into lines. Yep. Adrian’s bedroom was his bedroom, reversed. Adrian was going to sleep about a foot and a half from where Ben slept.

He went downstairs.

There were thirty-one boxes and a couch that wouldn’t fit through the door until they took the legs off. Adrian had labeled everything in neat black marker, and the labels told Ben more than any conversation had.

KITCHEN — USEFUL.

KITCHEN — OPTIMISTIC. That one clanked like a pasta machine.

BOOKS (MINE). BOOKS (ALSO MINE). BOOKS (I HAVE A PROBLEM).

LEO — DO NOT OPEN — HE WILL KNOW.

Ben carried that one in with both hands. It rattled like it was full of dice.

“Leo’s your son?” he asked.

“Ten.” Adrian took the box from him and set it on the stairs with a little more care than the others. “He invents board games. That box is about forty of them. Some have rulebooks longer than the Constitution.”

“Is he —”

“At his other dad’s this week. Alternate weeks.” Adrian straightened, pushed his wet hair back off his forehead with one hand. The sweater rode up. A slice of flat stomach, a line of dark hair. Ben looked at the box. “You?”

“Daughter. Sophie, she’s twelve. Same deal. Alternate weeks.” Ben heard his own voice go a little tight on alternate, like it was a word he hadn’t fully broken in yet. “She left at five.”

Adrian went still for a second.

“Sunday at five?”

“Sunday at five. Every other Sunday.”

“Huh,” Adrian said. “Leo goes back to Daniel’s on Sundays at five.”

They looked at each other in the hallway of the mirror house, two men in wet clothes who had both watched a car pull away tonight.

“So we’re on the same schedule,” Ben said.

“Looks like it.”

“That’s —” Convenient. Lonely. A very specific kind of coincidence. “That’s good. For the kids. If they meet. They could, I don’t know. Wave.”

“Wave,” Adrian repeated, with the faint air of a man filing something under interesting.

They went back out to the truck. Ben carried the couch legs. Adrian carried a lamp and a box labeled BATHROOM — DO NOT JUDGE. He’d shoved his sleeves up to the elbows and his forearms were wet and corded and roped with veins, lean muscle shifting every time he took a grip, and Ben noticed it the way he noticed load-bearing walls, which was to say professionally and for no other reason at all.

Adrian’s hands, though.

Long-fingered, big-knuckled, a scar across the back of the left one. When he lifted a box he spread his fingers wide across the bottom of it, like he was learning the shape, and Ben found himself watching that more than was strictly neighborly.

He hadn’t looked at a man’s hands like this in a long time. He’d been married. You didn’t. Or you did, but you looked at your husband’s, and after sixteen years you knew them so well you didn’t see them anymore.

Ben made himself think about the bed frame box instead. Forty-two pieces, probably. Hex bolts. Instructions drawn by someone who hated people.

“You’re good at this,” Adrian said, coming back down the ramp. “Carrying things. I’ve watched you go up those steps eight times and you haven’t slowed down once.”

“I have big hands,” Ben said, and then wanted to lie face down in the sleet. “I mean — I’m just. Big. I’ve always been the one who carries things.”

Adrian looked at his hands. Then up, at his face.

“I noticed,” he said.

Ben laughed, because that was what he did with things he didn’t know what to do with, and went back up the ramp for the last box.

It wasn’t anything. The man was being nice. Ben was out of practice at the difference between a man being nice and a man being anything else. He’d been out of the world for sixteen years. The rules had probably changed. They probably had apps for knowing.

He picked up the last box. MISC — GOOD LUCK.

And then he remembered the pasta.

“Oh my God.”

The rigatoni had boiled down to a starchy, swollen mass at the bottom of the pot. Not burned. Just very, very done. Ben stood over it with his rain jacket dripping on the floor and considered his options.

He could throw it out. He could eat it alone at the kitchen island like a man in a commercial for antidepressants. He could put some in a bowl, take it next door, and say Oh, I made extra, no trouble at all, which was the kind of lie he’d been telling smoothly for most of his adult life.

He drained it. He tossed it with the sauce he’d made at four, back when there had still been a twelve-year-old in the house to complain that it had “too many chunks.” He grated parmesan over it with more force than parmesan deserved.

Then he looked at the two bowls he’d filled, and the dark windows, and the eight inches of wall between him and a man eating dinner out of a box.

He went back next door.

Adrian answered in a dry T-shirt and a pair of joggers, his hair towel-rough and sticking up, glasses on. They were tortoiseshell. They made him look like a professor about to fail somebody and enjoy it.

Ben held up the bowls.

“I made a pound of pasta for one person,” he said. “I need you to eat some of it so I don’t have to think about why.”

Adrian looked at the bowls. Then at Ben.

Then he stepped back to let him in.

“That’s the most honest thing anyone’s said to me in this town,” he said.

“You’ve been in this town four hours.”

“And you’ve set a very high bar.”

The kitchen was the mirror of Ben’s, down to the radiator under the window, but empty. A bare bulb overhead. No table yet. Adrian dug through KITCHEN — USEFUL and came up with two forks, a corkscrew, and a bottle of red wine with a sticky note on the label that said, in loopy handwriting, Drink this and CALL ME. —M.

“Friend of mine,” Adrian said, peeling the note off and folding it into his pocket. “She thinks I’m a hermit.”

“Are you?”

“I’m going to do one of the two things that note says.”

He didn’t have glasses. He poured the wine into two coffee mugs instead, one that said WORLD’S OKAYEST DAD and one with a cartoon raccoon on it, and handed Ben the raccoon.

They sat on boxes. Ben took BOOKS (I HAVE A PROBLEM), which held up admirably. Adrian sat across from him on KITCHEN — OPTIMISTIC and ate rigatoni with the focus of a man who’d been living on gas station almonds since noon.

“This is good,” he said, with his mouth full.

“It’s overcooked.”

“It’s hot and I didn’t make it. That’s the whole review.” He chewed. “My compliments to the guy who doesn’t know how to cook for one.”

“Sixteen years of cooking for three,” Ben said. “My body hasn’t heard the news.”

He waited for the follow-up. Sixteen years, wow. What happened? People always asked, with a particular tilt of the head, and then Ben had to give them the tidy version. We grew apart. It was mutual. We’re great co-parents. All true. All about as nourishing as cardboard.

Adrian didn’t ask. He just drank some wine out of the okayest dad mug and said, “When was it final?”

“October.”

“Recent.”

“We separated a year and a half before that. So it’s — not recent recent. It’s just paperwork recent.” Ben turned the raccoon mug in his hands. “You?”

“Three years.”

“Does it get —”

“Quieter,” Adrian said. “Not easier. Quieter. And then you get used to the quiet, and then one day you catch yourself saying good morning to the coffee maker and you have to have a long, hard look at your life.”

“Did the coffee maker say it back?”

“It’s a Breville. It’s very reserved.”

Ben laughed, really laughed, the kind that came up from his stomach. It felt strange, like stretching a muscle he’d forgotten.

“Nathan and I are very civil,” he said. “We have a shared calendar. Color-coded. Blue’s his week, green’s mine, red is anything either of us is quietly disappointed about.”

“How much red?”

“You’d be amazed what you can fit in a month.”

“Daniel and I communicate exclusively through Leo’s soccer bag,” Adrian said. “Things go in. Things come out. Nobody asks questions. It’s the healthiest relationship I’ve ever had.”

They sat with that for a second, both of them smiling down at their pasta. Outside, the sleet had turned to something softer, a wet, steady patter on the window over the radiator. The bare bulb buzzed. It should have been bleak. It was the best hour Ben had spent in weeks.

Adrian was a good listener. That was the thing Ben noticed next, after the hands, after the forearms, after the voice. He didn’t jump into silences. He let them sit. When Ben said something, Adrian looked at him while he said it, steady and level through the tortoiseshell glasses, like there was nothing else in the room worth looking at, which admittedly there wasn’t, but still.

It was a little like being under a very warm lamp.

Ben found himself talking. Not about the divorce, not really. About work, the firm in Boston, the library renovation he was drafting for a town in New Hampshire that wanted the 1903 reading room preserved and also wanted outlets everywhere. About Sophie, who had opinions about crown molding now, at twelve, God help him. About the house — not the money, not the June deadline sitting in his inbox like a landmine, just the house. The light on the stairs. The way the radiators clanked in a rhythm he could sleep to.

“Mine are doing that now,” Adrian said.

They listened. Somewhere in the walls, the old pipes knocked, a long, slow rattle and a hiss.

“That’s both of ours,” Ben said. “We share a boiler loop. It’s — it’s an old building, a lot of the systems are tied together.”

“So when your heat’s on, mine is.”

“More or less.”

“That’s very intimate for people who met an hour ago.”

“I’ve known you for at least ninety minutes.”

“Ninety minutes,” Adrian said gravely. “Practically engaged.”

Ben’s face went hot. He drank wine out of the raccoon so he’d have something to do with it.

He looked away — over Adrian’s shoulder, at the wall. The shared one. The kitchen wall, which was his kitchen wall, and on the other side of it was his kitchen, the island, the pot soaking in the sink, the hallway, the dining room nobody ate in, the dark staircase, all of it unlit. He hadn’t left a single lamp on. He’d run out the door for a mattress and now the whole left half of the house was black.

He’d lived there eleven years and he’d never once come home to it dark. Someone had always been inside. A husband, a kid, a babysitter, a dog for three years until the dog died. The lights had always been on.

“You keep looking at that wall,” Adrian said, “like it owes you money.”

Ben pulled his eyes back. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just curious.”

“My house is dark,” Ben said. “I didn’t leave a light on.”

Adrian waited.

“It’s stupid. I’m a grown man. I can walk into a dark house.” He was turning the mug again. He made himself stop. “It’s just that nobody’s supposed to be there. And that’s — that’s the arrangement. That’s the whole point. It’s what we agreed on. It’s good for her, it’s consistent, every other week, it’s very healthy, every article says so.” He was talking too fast. “So.”

“So it’s very healthy and you hate it,” Adrian said.

Ben looked at him.

Adrian looked right back, steady, and didn’t soften it, and didn’t apologize for it either. Just put it on the box between them like a fact.

“I didn’t say that.”

“No,” Adrian agreed. “You said so.”

Ben opened his mouth. Closed it. He wanted, quite badly, to make a joke, to say something light enough to carry the moment back to where it had been a minute ago. He was very good at that. He’d been carrying moments out of rooms since he was eight years old.

Nothing came.

“My first year,” Adrian said, after a while, “I used to stay late at the office on the Sundays he left. Just sit there. I’d tell myself I was catching up on email. I was not catching up on email. I was avoiding walking into a quiet house.” He shrugged, one shoulder. “Then I started working from home and lost my excuse. Now I just play a podcast very loudly.”

“Does it help?”

“It makes it louder.”

Ben laughed, and it came out wrecked around the edges, and Adrian smiled at him, small and crooked, like he’d been waiting for it.

“Leave a lamp on next time,” Adrian said. “Timer. Twelve bucks. Makes it look like someone’s waiting up.”

“That’s very depressing advice.”

“It’s very practical advice. It just has a depressing personality.”

He left around nine, when Adrian started yawning behind his hand and trying to hide it. Ben collected the bowls, rinsed them in the empty sink because he couldn’t help himself, and stood in the doorway pulling his jacket back on.

“Thank you,” Adrian said. “For the mattress. And dinner. And the boxes. And telling me about the boiler loop, which I’m going to think about every time the heat comes on.”

“Anytime.”

“Careful,” Adrian said. “I might hold you to that.”

“You’ve got that bed frame upstairs.”

“I do.”

“It’s going to have forty bolts and instructions drawn by a sadist.”

“Are you offering?”

“I’m a professional,” Ben said. “I read plans for a living. I’m very good with an Allen key.”

He heard it a half second after it came out. Very good with an Allen key. Christ. Who said that? Who said that out loud to a man they’d just met, in a doorway, at night?

Adrian leaned one shoulder on the doorframe, glasses pushed up into his hair now, the hallway light behind him.

“I’ll bet you are,” he said.

Ben went home.

It was dark, the way he’d left it. He turned on every light on the first floor and then stood in the hallway feeling like an idiot and turned half of them back off.

He loaded the dishwasher. He wiped down a counter that was already clean. He went to put the extra pasta in the fridge, saw there wasn’t any extra pasta, stood there for a second holding nothing.

Through the dining room doorway, the table caught the hallway light. Six chairs. The runner Nathan’s mother had given them for their tenth anniversary. A bowl of decorative pinecones Ben had arranged in December of the year before last, back when there were still two names on the Christmas cards, and had not touched since. Sophie had asked about it once, over the holidays: Why does this room still look like a museum? Ben had said something about dust and changed the subject.

He switched the light off on it and went upstairs.

His bedroom was cold. He turned the radiator dial up and heard it answer somewhere deep in the walls, the long knock and hiss, and thought about the heat spreading through the shared pipes into the other half of the house. Into Adrian’s room. Onto Adrian’s floor bed.

He stripped, pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants, and went into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

He was halfway through the bottom row when the pipes shuddered.

Then, through the wall behind the sink, muffled but unmistakable: water. A shower coming on, a hard spray hitting tile.

Ben stopped brushing.

The bathrooms were back to back. Of course they were. He knew this house to the inch. His shower was on this side of the wall and Adrian’s was on that side, and the old plaster between them had never been built to keep out anything louder than a whisper.

The spray changed pitch. It was hitting something now. Not tile. Something softer. Ben could hear the difference, the way the water broke and spattered, the way it sounded when someone stepped all the way under it.

Then a sound — low, rough, half a groan, the kind of noise a man makes when hot water finally hits his frozen shoulders after six hours in the sleet.

“Oh, thank God,” Adrian said, to no one, through the wall.

Ben put his free hand flat on the sink.

He told himself to leave. To spit, rinse, walk out, go to bed like a normal man. Instead he stood there with toothpaste foaming in his mouth and listened to the water change again, a shift of weight, an elbow knocking the tile, a soft curse. The slick, quiet sound of hands moving over wet skin.

He thought about those hands. About the long fingers spread across the bottom of a box. About the wet sweater and the line of hair low on his stomach, and the voice. I noticed. About Adrian under that spray right now, head tipped back, water running down his throat, down that flat, lean stomach and lower —

Ben looked down.

His cock was pressing hard against the front of his sweatpants, thick and obvious, tenting the soft gray cotton like it had something to say.

He was standing in his own bathroom with a toothbrush in his mouth, listening to a stranger shower through the wall, and he was hard as a fucking rock.

On the other side of the plaster, Adrian started to hum.

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August. The first off-week Sunday in the house on Prospect Street. Twenty-six boxes still taped, no sheets on the bed, and Ben on his knees with his own Allen key and the muffin tin, rebuilding the oak bed from Linden Street. This time Adrian isn’t going to be careful. And this time there’s nobody on the other side of the wall.

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