"I'll make something good." He kisses me one more time. "Love you."
"Love you too." I grab my keys from the hook by the door and press them into his hand. "Take the Kawasaki. Robin can give me a ride later to pick it up."
He stares at the keys like I've just handed him something precious. "You're letting me ride your bike?"
"You're wearing my jacket, my mark, my come—" He flushes and I grin. "Might as well add my bike to the list."
"You're impossible."
"You love it."
"Yeah." He pockets the keys, still looking a little dazed. "I really do."
I watch him from the doorway as he swings onto the Kawasaki, my jacket swallowing his shoulders, my mark visible above the collar. He revs the engine once—showing off, the brat—and takes off down the street.
Mine. All of it. All of him.
I pull out my phone and text Robin.
Coffee? Got something I want to talk about.
His response comes back in seconds:ominous. be there in 20.
---
An hour later, Robin shows up with a container of croissants.
"You said coffee," he says, shoving the container at me as he walks through the door. "Coffee needs carbs. It's a rule."
"You baked these?"
"I always have pastries. You know this. Jason's not the only one who bakes—I just do it less annoyingly." He pushes past me into the kitchen and starts opening cabinets. "Where do you keep your plates? Never mind, found them. These are very sad plates, Ash. Very bachelor. Very 'I've given up on joy.'"
"They're white. They're functional."
"They're depressing. They look like hospital cafeteria plates." He plates two croissants and slides one across the counter to me. "So. What's with the sudden desire for brother bonding? You in crisis? Jason dump you already?"
"Jason didn't dump me."
"Then what?" Robin takes a huge bite of pastry, crumbs scattering across the counter I just bleached. "You don't call meto hang out. You call me when something's wrong or when you need help hiding a body."
"I've never needed help hiding a body."
"That's exactly what someone who needed help hiding a body would say."
I roll my eyes and drink my coffee. It's terrible—I must have made it wrong again—but I drink it anyway. "I just wanted to see you. Is that so hard to believe?"
"Yes." But he's smiling, warmth underneath the sarcasm. "It's nice, though. Weird, but nice."
We eat in silence for a minute, the only sound Robin's aggressive chewing and the hum of the refrigerator. Then I say, "Want to go to the range later?"
Robin's eyebrows shoot up. "What, you want your ass kicked again?"
"No one would ever believe you shoot better than me."
He smirks, that cocky expression he gets when he knows he's right. "It's a gift. Natural talent. Some of us are just born superior."
It's true. Robin's always been a better shot than me, even when we were kids with BB guns in the backyard plinking cans off the fence. Natural talent he never did anything with, while I went into the military and trained for years and still can't match him on a good day. Drives me insane.
