“I have a human wall and French toast,” I say. “I’ve been worse.”
She leans back, searching my face. “You know you don’t have to be strong right now, right?”
“I’m not,” I say. “I’m just…busy.”
Her eyes soften. “Busy is your coping mechanism.”
“I like my systems,” I say. “Sue me.”
“I’d win,” she says, then nods toward Bran. “How’s he doing?”
“Standing there like a massive tree,” I whisper. “It’s very on-brand.”
As if he hears us—which he probably does; his hearing is freakishly good—Bran moves to the window, scanning the street. He’s careful not to crowd us in the small kitchen, giving Cotton space like he’s had practice fitting himself into rooms that weren’t built for him.
“You feeding him, too?” she asks.
“He’s already had donuts,” I say. “Did you know he likes donuts?”
Cotton’s eyebrows climb. “He doesnotlook like a man who eats donuts.”
“That’s what I said,” I mutter.
Her gaze flicks between us, something speculative glinting there.
“Oh no,” I say. “Do not start with whatever is happening behind your eyes.”
“I’m not starting anything,” she says sweetly. “I’m just saying, if Kael sent a giant to sit on you, at least he sent one with decent bone structure.”
“I hate you,” I say, which is code forplease don’t leave.
She squeezes my arm. “You love me. Now feed your bodyguard before he fades into the wallpaper.”
“Youcannotfade into anything,” I inform Bran as we move to dish up food. “You’re like a walking violation of negative space.”
“What does that even mean?” he asks.
“It means you’re very…dimensional,” I say. “Stop laughing, Cotton.”
She wheezes into the casserole.
We eat at my tiny table, elbows bumping. Bran takes up half the available air and most of the bench on his side. I perch on the opposite chair. Cotton sits sideways, one leg tucked up, like she’s getting ready to stay until I kick her out.
It should feel crowded and wrong. Instead, for a minute, it feels almost normal.
“Any word on who she was?” Cotton asks quietly, cutting through syrup-soaked bread.
“Not officially,” I say. “Jack’s playing it close. Which is good. The less the peanut gallery knows, the better.”
“Youarethe peanut gallery,” she points out.
“I’m the gallery’s weird cousin in the back row who gets to eavesdrop,” I say.
Bran’s phone buzzes. He checks it, expression tightening a fraction.
“Brady,” he says, by way of explanation. He texts something back, efficient, then looks at me. “He’s coming up later. Wants to go over some things with you.”
“Can’t wait,” I say.
