"Do you have a mate?" Robin asks me directly.
The knife slips.
Toby curses, yanking his hand back, and I see red bloom on his finger.
I'm there before I consciously decide to move, taking his hand in mine, tilting it toward the light to assess the damage. It's barely a nick—a shallow cut across the pad of his index finger—but there's blood, and my lion does not like Toby bleeding.
"Let me see."
"It's fine, just—"
"First aid kit?"
"Bathroom," Robin says, and his voice has lost all its teasing edge. "I'll get it."
He disappears. I'm still holding Toby's hand, cradling it probably too carefully for such a minor injury. His pulse is quick under my fingers. Rabbit-fast.
"I'm okay," he says softly. "Just clumsy."
"You were tired."
Robin returns with a first aid kit, and I bandage Toby's finger with more attention than it strictly needs. Clean the cut, apply antiseptic, wrap it carefully in a Band-Aid. My hands are steady, but my lion is still rumbling, still agitated, still focused on the tiny spot of blood on the cutting board like it's a personal offense.
"I'll finish cutting," Robin announces, watching me with an expression I can't quite read. "You two go sit. Relax. Bond. Whatever."
Toby leads me to the living room.
It's exactly what I would have expected—overflowing bookshelves lining every available wall, paperbacks and hardcovers crammed in with no apparent organization. Mismatched furniture that somehow works together, a couch with too many throw pillows, a reading chair with a lamp positioned perfectly beside it. Stacks of books on the coffee table, on the floor beside the couch, on the windowsill.
"Sorry about Robin," Toby says, curling into a corner of the couch and tucking his feet under him. "He has no boundaries."
"You need someone to take care of you."
It comes out more intense than I intended. Toby's cheeks go pink.
"I do okay."
"Three hours of sleep. Forgetting to eat. Walking two miles in a storm instead of calling for help."
"My phone was dead. That wasn't—"
"You need taking care of," I repeat.
He stares at me, lips parted, and I can hear his heart rate pick up. Thudding in his chest like it's trying to escape.
"Dinner!" Robin calls from the kitchen. "Come get it while it's hot!"
Toby jumps up like he's been shocked, practically fleeing toward the kitchen. I follow more slowly, watching Robin watch us with knowing eyes.
Dinner is surprisingly comfortable. The stir fry is good—better than I expected, vegetables crisp and sauce flavorful—and Robin keeps up a steady stream of conversation that doesn't require much from me. He tells embarrassing stories about Toby in college: the time he got so absorbed in a book he walked into a fountain, the time he accidentally joined a protest because he was following someone while reading and didn't notice where they were going.
Toby throws vegetable pieces at him. Robin catches them in his mouth, grinning.
And I watch them interact—the easy rhythm of their bickering, the way they move around each other without thinking—and I realize, with relief that makes me angry at myself, that they're completely platonic.
The touches, the closeness, the shared clothes and inside jokes—it's all friendship. Deep, important friendship, the kind that comes from years of knowing someone. But nothing more.
Robin doesn't look at Toby the way I do. Doesn't track his movements across the room. Doesn't lean in when he speaks, hungry for every word.
