(GILBERT'S POV)
"There's a chair in the living room," Jasper offered. "Just don't sit in the one that growls."
"THE ONE THAT—"
"Kidding. Mostly."
He took my hand—warm, steady, grounding—and led me deeper into the house before I could protest. I followed numbly, my eyes darting from one impossible sight to another.
The living room was a disaster.
Not a dirty disaster—everything was clean, meticulously cared for—but a disaster of 'things'. Objects filled every available surface, spilled out of cabinets and drawers and shelves, covered the walls and hung from the ceiling. It was like a museum had exploded and then been reassembled by someone who had no idea what a museum was supposed to look like.
