“Never,” I say. “I intend to be grateful for my coffee for the rest of my life.”
“Atticus just fell in love with you again from the other room,” he says, pleased with himself.
“Good,” I say, and mean it.
On the way back inside, Spencer meets us at the door. He looks at me, not through me. “You holding up?” he asks, simple and honest.
“I am,” I say. “It helps that you are here.”
“Then I will remain here,” he replies, as if I have asked him to pass the salt. “My son sleeps more soundly when I sit near a window. I can do that.”
The words land in me like a steadying hand. “It is good to hear a father sayI will remain,” I tell him. “That is not what I am used to.”
“I know,” he says. “There is time to get used to different words.”
Night brings new quiet to the world around us. We do not pretend it’s the same as peace, but it is closer than last night. The operators trade places like ghosts who have been told to be kind.
We keep the house lights low, Storm and Atticus talking softly in the den. I hearWolfeandten a.m.and then nothing that sounds like pressure. Conrad sits in the chair outside my door with Zeus at his feet and reads the same page three times.
I brush my teeth and catch my own reflection in the mirror. The bruises are changing to yellow and green. My eyes look clearer than they did yesterday.
I do not look like a victim. I do not look like something that cannot break.
I look like myself, and that is the victory for today.
Before I climb into bed, I open the door fully and lean on the frame. Conrad looks up at once. He sets the book on his thigh and waits. He doesn’t reach for me.
I should close the door.
I don’t.
Instead, I leave it cracked—just enough that the strip of light from the hallway cuts across the floorboards like a line I can step over or not. His silhouette is a solid shape in the chair. A sentry. A promise.
It helps that you’re here.
Fabric rustles at my window, then knuckles tap the frame—two quick touches that make my heart jump at first.
“Kitten?” a voice whispers. “You decent or should I come back in…five minutes?”
I cross the room and slide the window open a few inches. Cool island air slips in, carrying marsh and ocean.
“I’m in pajamas,” I say, bemused. “So, no. Why the hell are you slipping in through the window?”
Atticus smirks up at me from the little bit of porch roof outside, one hand braced, one thigh bent. “Thought I’d try something different. Is that no a challenge or a rejection?”
“Depends,” I say. “You coming in or not?”
His eyes flare behind his glasses. “Color?”
“Green,” I answer. “The door stays how it is.” My throat tightens. “I… want him there.”
Something flickers in his expression—understanding, worry, and a flash of sharp protectiveness that isn’t for me this time, but for the man in the hall. “Yeah, kitten,” he says softly. “We can do that.”
He swings himself in easy, bare feet silent on the hardwood. He’s in a soft T-shirt and joggers, hair a little spiky from his hands. He smells like soap and something exotic and spicy—his cologne.
He doesn’t crowd me. He comes close enough for me to reach and then stops.
“Rules?” he asks.
