She isn’t.
Eris is listening. Tracking us. Filing things away. Watching Silas go quiet as he works and Jace pace like he’s got too much energy and nowhere safe to put it. She surveys the room the way I do with exits.
Carefully.
Automatically.
The ex drama is already so far out of Eris’s mind. There’s no tension left in her shoulders or residual unease. She doesn’t even cast a second glance toward the door. There is only clean focus, like the interruption never mattered.
That should unsettle me more than it does. Right?
How did she move on so quickly?
It’s as if she’s rolling downhill, thriving on nothing but the momentum… But the snowball has to come to a stop at some point.
I lean against the hallway wall, arms crossed, stalking her through the open space between the kitchen and the living room. She doesn’t look up, but I get the sense she knows I’m here.
Jace walks into the living room with a bottle of room-temperature water and hands it to her without saying a word. He already knows how she takes her coffee, too.
She smiles at him. It’s not a wide flash of teeth, but it’s just enough to see she’s acknowledging his thoughtfulness.
Their actions hit me hard, like someone cracking my ribs in one forceful jab.
Silas drops a protein bar on the couch beside her when he does a lap around the loft at his thirty-minute timer. She rolls her eyes, mutteringdadunder her breath. He grunts, though I catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Eris makes everything feel… brighter.
But we’re men built for dark rooms and the harsh glow of a screen.
I push off the wall and move toward her before I can overthink it.
She looks up,still wearing my shirt,and I want her to stay in it forever. Or leave it lying on the floor.
“You’re hovering again,” she sings with a sassy tone.
“You’re in my shirt.”
“You left it out.”
“That was intentional.” I hum and raise a brow at her. “Call it strategic placement.”
She grins, readjusting her legs. “Oh, I know.”
I sit on the arm of the couch, close enough that my knee brushes her shoulder. She doesn’t pause her internet search or pull away.
Instead, she leans into me like it’s natural. Like it’s expected.
Her fingers keep moving across the keyboard and trackpad as she switches between too many open tabs. It looks like something technical. I lean a little closer, attempting to read the screen without my contacts in, but her eyes flick up to mine, sharp and amused.
“So, Hollow,” she says casually. “Is that your mysterious broody username, or are you secretly in a band?”
I blink in surprise, then laugh despite myself. “Definitely not in a band.”
She tilts her head. “You could be.”
“What, the quiet one on bass?”
“No.” Her eyes dip to my lips, slow and deliberate. “Lead vocals. The one with issues. Tragic backstory. A voice that makes people question their sexuality.”
