Joyce’s canvas is a field of ochre with a slash of deep green across it like a shadow cast by a blade of grass at five in the afternoon. It’s beautiful and missing something she won’t be able to name yet. “You’ve got light and ground,” I say, stepping beside her, keeping my voice low enough not to be theater. “What do you want attention to do in this space? Sit or shift?”
She presses her lips together in a way that tells me she’s used to not being asked for preference. “Shift,” she says eventually.
“Then you need an interruption,” I say, pointing not at the canvas but at the negative space between the green and the edge. “A line that isn’t like the others. Not a loud one. Just one that makes the rest make sense.”
She studies the canvas, the space, then the cheap brush in her hand that she’s been using with a careful, apologetic grip. “Will this do it?”
“It’ll work,” I say. “But if you’re ready to get to the sentence without the polite words first, use this.” I hand her a small, stiff-bristled brush with a point that gives you the truth whether you meant to tell it or not. “Just one stroke. Then take a step back.”
She nods and takes the stroke.
“Perfect,” I say, and step back to my sun square and my tray.
“Peace offerings for the woman everyone keeps telling me is more useful than half our staff,” Reid says, leaning his shoulder against the frame like the floodlight version of a man arranging himself to look casual. He’s in a slate suit without the Foundation pin; that omission reads to me as kindness, like keeping a voice down in a nursery. He’s got two lidded coffees in one hand and a carton of those tiny pastries in the other.
“Flattery this early?” I say, standing, wiping my hands on a rag that used to be a T-shirt with a band name I no longer admit I listened to. “Bad form.”
“I didn’t say more talented,” he says, handing me a coffee. “Useful. Different metric. People show up for you. I pay attention to that.”
I take the cup. It’s the exact temperature I like coffee to be. “Thanks,” I say.
He makes an acknowledging noise, like a mechanic who’s just been told the engine knock you hear is real. “How are you settling?” he asks, eyes moving around the room in a way that doesn’t read as surveillance because he softens it with attention. He’s good at making a scan feel like a check-in instead of a sweep.
“I’m busy.” It’s both answer and defense. He takes it as the former because he understands the latter.
“Cassian means well,” he says, and I have to clamp down on the irritated laugh that rises. The phrasing is a velvet glove. I’ve worn velvet gloves. “But he’s…” He tips his head as if he’s looking for a word that won’t be uncomfortable on his tongue. “…Cassian.”
“That covers a lot of sins,” I scoff.
“It covers a lot of scars,” he corrects. “And it makes him bad at explaining he thinks about safety ten steps before you do. If anything ever feels wrong, come to me.”
I look at him over the lid of the coffee cup. “Thank you. I mean that.”
He nods, accepting the gratitude as an object placed between us instead of a ticket to anything else. “You saw the news from last night,” he says, not a question.
“Only the parts I was in,” I reply. “Which were more than I wanted.”
His mouth flattens; he looks genuinely regretful. “That wasn’t… the cleanest way to handle Caldwell,” he says. “But it worked. He’s pivoting to a different target. Still—” He glances at my phone where it lies face down beside my rag. “Be careful who you answer. They’re still… sniffing.”
The word makes the back of my neck prickle. “Who’s ‘they’ today?” I ask.
“Anyone who wants to look like a hero on camera,” he says dryly. “Caldwell’s office. A PI firm with more enthusiasm than ethics. A blogger who doesn’t deserve a platform but has one. It’ll fade if we don’t feed it.” He blows on his coffee as if the subject bores him, which is his way of making it smaller. “In the meantime, if you get anything weird, don’t engage. Bring it to me.”
“Why not Cassian?” The question comes out before I’ve told it to sound light.
Reid’s eyes tip to mine with an expression I can’t decide is pity or professionalism. “Because he’ll set the house on fire to keep you warm,” he says, so gently I almost miss the blade under it. “And I can usually find you a blanket.”
I don’t like the rush of heat that sentence sends through me. I don’t like that the heat is a complicated messy stagger of want and warning. “You and your metaphors,” I mumble, dropping my gaze to my tray because that’s safer. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“My pleasure.” He tips the carton of pastries so I can see what’s inside. “My sources say you eat when you paint and paint when you shouldn’t have to eat. Pace yourself.”
“You have sources on my blood sugar?” I ask jokingly.
“I have eyes,” he responds. “We’re all watching out for each other. You’ll get used to it.” He steps back a fraction. “Seriously. Anything weird—come to me.”
He leaves a polaroid of warmth behind him. The door swings, pauses at the soft latch, closes with a whisper. Vera pretends she didn’t hear the entire exchange, which is her way of giving me back privacy that’s already left the building.
I return to the floor, sit, and let Kenzie show me how she’s decided to make the blue behave. “It looks like water,” she says grudgingly.
