"Tonight," he says to Ezra. "Everyone. Ash's place."
Ezra nods. Doesn't ask what it's about. He already knows.
Knox looks at me. "You too."
"Me?"
"You. Six o'clock. Ash's house is on Maple Street. Ezra will give you the address." He takes his coffee back to the office. Stops. "It's not a formal thing. Jason's cooking. Just bring yourself."
The office door closes.
I look at Ezra. Ezra looks at me.
"He just invited me to dinner," I say.
"He did."
"At someone's house. With the whole—" I gesture vaguely at the bar, encompassing the concept ofeveryone.
"The whole pride including the humans, yes." Ezra's expression is carefully neutral, but there's warmth underneath it, and what might be relief. "It's how Knox does things. When something affects the pride, everyone hears it at the same time. Usually over food."
"I'm not pride."
Ezra looks at me for a long moment. That direct gaze, the one that sees through spreadsheets and suits and the careful composure I've maintained for almost two weeks.
"You're being invited to dinner," he says. "Don't overthink it."
I overthink everything. It's what I do. It's the only thing standing between me and a series of decisions that I would apparently make at dawn in dark bars with lion shifters who smell like tea and look at me like I'm something worth solving.
"Six o'clock," I say.
"Six o'clock." He pauses. The careful neutrality slips for a second — just enough to let something through. "Bring wine. Jason will pretend it doesn't matter but he'll judge your choice.Mid-range red. Not too expensive — it looks like you're trying. Not too cheap — it looks like you don't care."
"That's a very narrow window."
"Welcome to pride dynamics."
* * *
At four-thirty, I pack up. The routine: thirty percent, nod at Ezra, laptop bag on the shoulder. But today Ezra stops me with a look.
"Give me your phone," he says.
I hand it over. He types something. His number, I realize. He hands it back. The contact says EZRA with no last name, which is either a stylistic choice or a reminder that I still don't know his last name. A gap in my data that I find suddenly urgent.
"In case you get lost on the way to Ash's," he says.
"I have GPS."
"In case your GPS gets lost."
"That's not how GPS—"
"Nicholas."
"Nico," I say. Not a correction. An offer. One I've been thinking about since the dawn reveal, since the tea, since his name in my phone with no last name. "The people who know me call me Nico."
Something moves across his face. Quick, warm, the response of a man receiving something he didn't ask for and didn't expect.
