"Language," Xavier says automatically, which makes Logan's scent spike with leather and rain, his version of barely contained violence.
"We're grown men, Doc." Logan gestures with his wildflower bouquet, nearly smacking Xavier in the face. "I'll use whatever fucking language I want."
"In front of Savannah?" Xavier steps back, clutching his white roses protectively.
"Savannah's heard worse. She lived through dating all three of us," I point out, pushing off from my truck as the bus rumbles into the station.
"We should have discussed this," Xavier says, his mint scent carrying notes of professional disappointment.
"We did," I point out. "You volunteered. We said okay. End of discussion."
"Then why are you here?" Xavier snaps.
"Because I changed my mind."
"And me?" Logan asks.
"Because you're a control freak who can't let anyone else handle anything without supervision."
Logan's storm-gray eyes narrow. "Says the man who can't remember to put his dishes in the dishwasher."
"Hey, I put them in the sink. That's progress."
"The sink isn't the dishwasher, Griffin," Xavier says, and that's another thing that really pisses me off. Why my parents named me Griffin is beyond my comprehension, but Xavier is the only one that calls me that. It annoys the fuck out of me. The amount of times I have to tell him to call me Griff and he still insists on Griffin.
"It's sink-adjacent. Close enough. AND stop calling me Griffin!”
Xavier steps between us before Logan can respond. "Perhaps we should focus on why we're all here instead of our household duties.”
"We're here because none of us trust the others to handle this properly," I say.
"Handle what properly? It's a ten-minute drive,” Xavier says.
"It's Savannah," Logan says quietly, and the name settles between us like a weight none of us want to carry.
Savannah with her brown eyes that shifted from green to gold depending on her mood. Savannah who tried to love us by improving us and left when we proved we didn't want to be improved.
My sandalwood scent carries notes of sawdust and something I don't want to examine too closely. Anticipation, maybe. Or dread. Hard to tell the difference when it comes to her.
"The bus is supposed to arrive at 3:47," Xavier mutters, flicking a glance at his watch like it’s already disappointing him. "It's currently 3:43."
"Cutting it close," I observe.
"I was here first," Logan points out.
"Actually, I was here first," Xavier corrects. "You arrived approximately three minutes after me."
"And I was here before both of you," I add, which is a complete lie.
Logan snorts. "You pulled in as I was getting out of my car."
Other people wait for the bus too. An elderly woman clutching a cardboard sign reading "WELCOME HOME JANET," a young man bouncing on his heels with nervous energy, a mother with two small children who keep asking when Daddy's bus will arrive. Normal people with normal reunions that don't require multiple vehicles and competitive flower arrangements.
"What if she doesn't want to see us?" Xavier asks suddenly, his mint and cologne scent carrying an undercurrent of anxiety.
"She agreed to let you pick her up," I point out.
"Before she knew all three of us would be here," Logan says, crossing his arms over his chest.
