There's a bag in his hands.

A paper bag.

And not just any bag. A very specific, orange-and-green printed bag with a little smear of curry oil on the corner. I know that bag like I know the birthmarks on my own butt.

That's Punjabi Palace takeout.

"Peace offering," Monty says, holding it up like a white flag that smells like garlic naan and emotional manipulation.

My stomach, betrayer of the century, growls so loudly I swear the hallway echoes with its shame.

I clutch my bathrobe tighter around me like it'll protect me from the scent. It won't. The rich, buttery perfume of chicken tikka and spice wafts into...