"He asked me about David. By name. He knew David's name. I almost fell over." She's breathless, the way Cass is always breathless, running at full speed because walking has never occurred to her as an option. "Is the spreadsheet bartender going to be there?"
"He lives here, Cass. He'll be here."
"Good. I have questions prepared."
"Of course you do."
"Also I need to meet the cat. And the drag queen. And the man who doesn't talk. And the one who feeds everyone. And the alpha — is that what you call him? The one who communicates in looks?"
"That's Knox. Don't stare at him."
"I'm absolutely going to stare at him."
"Cass."
"I'm bringing the green dress. And David says hello. His hands are still sweaty. We're going on a third date next week."
"Third date is significant."
"I know. I'm cautiously optimistic." A pause. The brief, rare Cass silence that means something real is underneath. "Nico? I'm glad you're happy. You sound different. Like you sound like — yourself. The real version."
"I am myself."
"No, I mean — you used to sound like you were giving a presentation. Even to me. Even when it was just us. And now you sound like a person who's just talking." She laughs. "It's nice. I like this Nico."
"I like this Nico too."
"Tell Ezra I said hi. Tell him I'm bringing David photos for approval. Tell him if he hurts you I'll — I don't know, what do you threaten a lion with?"
"A spray bottle."
"I'll bring a spray bottle."
She hangs up. Four minutes, eight seconds. Cass remains efficient.
* * *
Five o'clock. The bar settles into its evening rhythm.
Knox is in his office with the door open. Toby is coming by after the library closes. Jason is prepping something in the kitchen that smells like garlic and rosemary and the warmth of a meal being made for people you love. Robin brought pastries at three — he brings pastries every day now, from the café, always enough for everyone, always with a specific one that's for Vaughn and only Vaughn, which they think no one notices and everyone notices. Silas is in his corner. Mango has migrated from the windowsill to the bar top, where she's lying in the last patch of afternoon sun with the absolute conviction of an animal who knows she belongs here.
Ezra closes his laptop. The real close — the end-of-day close, the one that means the books are done and the evening is his.
"Walk?" he asks.
We walk. Not far — down the road past the garage, along the tree line where the light turns golden at this hour. His hand finds mine. The mark on my neck is a scar now, smooth, two crescents that have become as familiar as any other part of my body. I forget it's there until a shifter sees it and their eyes shift — the brief flicker of recognition, the acknowledgment.
Claimed. Bonded. His.
"Diana wants to formalize the NSRC arrangement," I say. "Pro bono consulting. Official affiliation."
"I heard."
"I'm going to say yes."
"I know."
"I'm going to need a desk. The booth is fine for reading, but if I'm doing real analysis—"
