“I wanted you alive,” I say lightly. “The rest is negotiable.”
She takes a bite of fruit, chews thoughtfully. “You’re bad at being subtle.”
“False. I’m excellent at being subtle. I’m just choosing not to be.”
She laughs – real, warm – and it’s stupid how good it sounds in this room. Like something clicking back into place.
I keep talking. On purpose. I complain about the lift music. About the coffee being aggressively optimistic. About how Bones alphabetises things that don’t need it. I tell a story about Snow nearly starting a fight over toast once, which Kayla immediately demands more details on.
“Two kinds of toast?” she asks.
“Two philosophies,” I correct. “It got ugly.”
She shakes her head, smiling, and for a few minutes it’s easy to pretend this is just us killing time in a hotel room for boring reasons.
I watch her out of the corner of my eye anyway. Not for weakness. For tells. She eats steadily. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t stall. No hands shaking. No sudden stillness. Whatever she’s carrying, she’s carrying it well.
Too well.
But I don’t say that.
I nudge a container toward her. “You didn’t touch this one.”
“I’m pacing myself.”
“Rude.”
She shakes her head with a snort but takes a bite to shut me up.
Good. This is the part I’m good at. Noise. Warmth. Making the world feel temporarily survivable. If I can give her ten minutes where nothing sharp gets in, I’ll take it.
I lean back against the bed, stretching my legs out. “See? Perfectly normal morning.”
She glances around the room. The food. Me. The closed door.
“Normal’s relative,” she says.
“Sure,” I agree easily. “But relative still counts.”
She hums, considering that, and goes back to eating.
For now, it works. For now, I let myself believe it might.
We don’t stay on the floor too long after that. Not because anyone says so – it just happens. Plates get shuffled, containers closed and stacked, and Kayla slides back onto the bed with her legs folded beneath her like she’s always sat there. I follow, leaning against the headboard, shoulder brushing hers without ceremony.
Close, but not careful.
Which matters.
She twiddles idly with the TV remote on her lap, not using it. Just touching it like it’s an option she’s choosing not to take yet. I clock it and deliberately don’t comment.
“So,” I say, stretching my arms out. “You want a stupid story or a mildly incriminating one?”
She considers. “Define incriminating.”
“Snow. Mostly.”
“That’s not a definition,” she says. “That’s a promise.”
