I snort. Talon almost cracks a smile.
The tension in the room loosens—not gone, not even close—but shifting into something bearable.
The storm is still coming. We all feel it. But for the next hour, we get to breathe. Together.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
PENELOPE
The next morningtastes like exhaustion and reheated stress.
No one slept—actuallyslept—because every time the place went quiet, someone shifted, breathed too hard, or muttered in their sleep-adjacent stupor, and all our brains snapped back toMinxy. But we pretended. We all did the “closing our eyes” thing for optics, and now we’re paying the price.
Gideon is already at the table again, laptop open, hair sticking up like it’s lost the will to live. Silas is on the opposite side, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he’s mentally mapping the clinic’s entire escape route again. Neither of them acknowledges it, but they’re fried.
And Talon?—
Talon is standing by the front door waiting for me. He’s dressed for class: black hoodie, ripped jeans, backpack slung over one shoulder. He looks like a guy pretending his entire life isn’t collapsing under him in slow motion. His eyes flick to mine, and it hits like static.
“We should go,” he says quietly. “I’ve got my first class at nine AM.”
“Yeah,” I say, grabbing my bag off the counter. “I’ll drive. You look like you shouldn’t operate a spoon right now, let alone a vehicle.”
A ghost of a smile appears on his face. “Fair.”
Gideon glances up long enough to say, “Take my car.” He throws his keys my way and I catch them. “Text when you get there.”
Silas adds, “And text when you leave.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, dads.”
Silas gives me a look that is absolutely notdad-like.
Talon shifts his weight as if the comment physically hit him, and that’s when it clicks:
he’s still not quite sure where he fits in here…neither am I, really. But I know there is something there, and well, Talon needs all the closeness he can get right now.
We leave the apartment, and the door clicks shut behind us. The hallway is quiet.
Talon’s steps echo beside mine. When we reach Gideon’s car, he hesitates at the passenger door.
“You don’t have to take me,” he says, voice low. “I can walk.”
“It’s three miles,” I say. “And you slept maybe eleven minutes. Get in. Gideon has never let me drive his car, so I’m taking full advantage. Don’t ruin this for me.”
He doesn’t move. Something fragile cracks between us. Last night he took in my touch as though it was a lifeline. Now he’s staying three inches too far away, like he’s protecting me from himself.
“Talon,” I say softly, “get in the car.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw, and he ducks his head, the tips of his ears going a little red. He taps the door twice, steadying himself, maybe, and exhales through his nose before sliding in.
The moment I slide into my seat, the air shifts—warm, tense, full of unspoken things. I start the engine. “Seatbelt.”
He clicks it on, staring out the windshield. “About last night…”
Here it comes. The spiral. The apology for existing.
“No,” I cut in. “Don’t do that thing where you pretend vulnerability is a crime.”
