No one moves to block me from anything. No one redirects my path or corrects my reach.
That, too, is strange.
"What are we making?" I ask, washing my hands.
"Dealer's choice," Finn says. "You're the expert."
I arch a brow. "I'm not—"
"You bake," Alex says simply, like that's the end of the discussion. "And you look like you need something to do with your hands."
I still at the sink for half a second.
Then I dry my hands and turn back to the counter.
"Apple bars. Simple. Forgiving."
Malcolm nods approvingly and slides the chopped nuts toward me. Alex pulls out flour and sugar like he's done this before. Finn hovers at my elbow, already peeling apples with more enthusiasm than skill.
They hover. That's the thing. It's a kind of choreography: Finn orbiting and darting in close, then away, then back; Malcolm's movements precise but unpredictable; and Alex just there, unmoving, an anchor point. The three of them always keep to their own elliptical patterns, but the gravity is set so that I'm at the center.
They graze against me, sometimes deliberately and sometimes not. Finn's elbow jostles my ribs when he tastes an apple slice and yelps at the tartness. Malcolm's knuckles brush my wrist as he sprinkles cinnamon. Alex's handgrazes my shoulder blade when he sidesteps behind me, warm and solid through my shirt.
And they are always careful to leave a gap. No one boxes me in. No one blocks my path to the exit, or to the sink, or to the wide window where sunlight pours through. If I wanted to run, I could.
I catch myself analyzing it, tracing the patterns as I whip eggs and vanilla. How Finn's laughter pings off the walls and makes Malcolm smile, how Alex only speaks when the others have run out of words, how they all check in with their eyes before touching me.
Finn is the most obvious about it. He gets his hand in the mixing bowl at every opportunity, sneaking tastes, licking batter from his finger with a performative "mmm" that's for my benefit. When I scold him lightly—"Raw eggs, Finn"—he grins and says, "That's how you build your immune system."
Malcolm is subtler. He lines up the ingredients I need before I realize I've run out; he wipes down the counter before flour can settle; he hands me a clean dish towel when I inevitably make a mess. His jokes are quieter, but they're sharp, and he always watches my face after, looking for a smile.
Alex is the one who sits back, observing. He's not cold—not at all—but he's reserved. When I ask him to measure out the brown sugar or to watch the timer, he does it with a gentle precision that borders on reverence.
There is a moment, as I reach across Malcolm to grab the cinnamon, that I realize I'm not anxious. Not even a little. My body is calm, my heart steady.
They all laugh, but it's not at me. Not ever at me.
"So," Finn says, slicing an apple too thin. "How's the class going?"
"It's fun."
Alex's eyes flick to my face, sharp and assessing. "You don't look overwhelmed."
"I'm not. It's just movement. Music. No expectations."
Malcolm hums thoughtfully. "Sounds healthy."
Finn grins. "See? We're excellent influences."
I smile back, but something twists low in my stomach.
I catch it then, all at once.
Malcolm watching my hands like I'm doing something magical. Alex's attention tracking me even when he pretends it isn't. Finn's eyes lighting every time I laugh, like it's a reward. They look at me like I hung the moon.
And the realization lands cold and sharp: I don't want them to.
Not because I don't like it.
