“Don’t make a habit of it,” I warn.
“Of apologizing?”
“Of saying stupid shit.”
He laughs again; the tension broken.
I flip through his notes, marking a few answers with my pen. His handwriting’s criminal, but there’s effort under the chaos. “Okay,” I say, tapping a page. “You actually understood this part.”
He leans forward, peering at my handwriting. His arm brushes mine, casual but deliberate. “So I’m not a total lost cause?”
“Don’t push it.”
“You wound me again.”
“Good. Builds character.”
He grins, that dangerous boyish charm lighting up his face. “You like wounding me.”
“Only when you deserve it.”
“I always deserve it.”
He stretches, and that’s when I notice his knuckles are still split, raw, dusted with fading bruises. I narrow my eyes.
“Talon,” I say slowly. “Why do your hands look like you lost a fight with a brick wall?”
He glances down, flexing his fingers. “Would you believe me if I said I tripped?”
“No.”
He smirks. “Then don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.”
My brow lifts. “So it’s true. Brose’s face looks like it got reacquainted with someone’s fist, and now I’m staring at the matching knuckles.”
“Coincidence,” he says lightly, sipping his coffee.
“Uh-huh. Purely ironic that you’re bruised, and he looks like a Picasso painting.”
“Ironic’s a good word for it.”
I stare at him for a beat, but he doesn’t flinch. His expression is a perfect mix of amusement and nonchalance. Eventually, I let it go. Not my circus, not my bruised boys.
My phone buzzes across the table.Gideon.
My stomach does that stupid flip again.
I swipe to answer. “Hey.”
“Hey, Little Menace.” His voice is low and gravelly, still warm even through the phone. Just hearing it makes me smile.
“How’s your day?”
“Better now.”
“Tired,” I admit. “Coffee’s my blood type at this point.”
He chuckles. “Where are you?”
