“Dean?” Cat says quietly. Her head shifts slightly on my chest as she looks up at me. “Yes?” I say. “Why do you always want everything to be so clean and organized?” “I like it that way. I hate mess. When something doesn’t smell good I can’t stop noticing—it nags at me, it distracts me, it drives me insane.” “Do I smell good?” Cat asks. “You smell better than anyone,” I tell her honestly. “Really?” she says, pleased. “It’s one of my favorite things about you. It’s like catnip, I can’t get enough.” I can tell she’s smiling, even though I can only see the edge of her face illuminated by the
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