“Steak for breakfast,” I say, because words are easier than feelings. “That’s…different.”
“Not really,” he replies, turning back to the stove. He lays the steaks in a cast iron pan; the sizzle is loud in the quiet cabin. “It’s healthier to eat a savory breakfast than one full of carbs and sugar.”
I squint at him. “What if I don’t care about eating healthy?”
“I do care about you eating healthy. Karla’s donuts are not a food group,” he says without looking back, because of course he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “And it’s close to noon anyway, so there’s that.”
My heart does a stupid little tumble. He noticed the donut thing. He noticed…me.
“Good enough,” I say, backing away toward the sofa. I pluck at the hem of his T-shirt, suddenly aware that I’m bare underneath. “Thank you.”
“For?” He reaches into the cabinet and pulls down a couple of plates, movements efficient.
“For caring,” I say, staring hard at my knees. “I haven’t had anyone do that since Mom died, so…thanks.”
There’s a pause—a soft little hitch in the rhythm of his motions.
A moment later, his shadow falls across me again. I look up just in time to see him lean down and press another kiss to my mouth, brief and achingly gentle.
“You’ve got me now,” he says simply.
The words punch straight through my sternum.
I swallow hard and nod, because if I try to speak, I might say something likeplease don’t dieand we are not there yet.
Afterweeat—steakforhim, steak and eggs and a token piece of toast for me, because apparently I’m not allowed to be pure goblin anymore—Bran shrugs into his jacket.
“Stay inside,” he says, eyes flicking automatically to the windows, the tree line beyond. “I’m going to walk the perimeter.”
“Perimeter,” I echo, rolling the word around. “Very tactical.”
“Very basic,” he counters. “Lock the door behind me. Don’t open it for anyone but me or Scully. If someone else shows up, you call Brady before you even think about being polite.”
“Yes, Dad,” I say, but I lock the door as soon as he steps out anyway.
The cabin is quiet in his absence. Too quiet. The silence tries to creep under my skin, bring with it memories I’m not interested in replaying. Hoofbeats in the night. The river. Miguel in the hay.
Nope.
I clean up the dishes instead. Hot water, soap, the clink of plates. There’s something soothing in the order of it—input, action, clear result. Dishes go from dirty to clean. Problem solved. Would that serial killers were that straightforward.
When the kitchen is back to its relatively tidy baseline, I look around for something to do that doesn’t involve spiraling.
My gaze lands on a cabinet near the TV.
Curious, I tug it open.
Jackpot.
Board games. Card decks. A few paperback novels with cracked spines, a puzzle with half the pieces in a ziplock bag.
“You didn’t tell me you were hiding enrichment activities,” I mutter, crouching to scan the titles. Monopoly. Uno. A dog-eared copy ofRisk. And then—“Oh, hello.”
Scrabble.
I pull it out with an unholy little thrill and carry it to the small dining table, rubbing my hands together in anticipation.
Bran Kelly has no idea what’s about to hit him.
