“Sit,” he says without turning around. “I’ve got this.”
“But your arms—”
“Are fine. Sit.”
I sit. But I can’t stop looking at the damage. At what he did for me.
Beckett pulls out a chair across from me. Trey drops into the one beside him, another cough rattling through his chest.
“How are you feeling?” Beckett asks.
“Fine. Really.” I look at Trey as he coughs again. “The better question is how are you.”
He waves me off. “I’ll be alright. We got you out. That’s what matters.”
I don’t think about it. I just scoot my chair closer and put my hand on his back, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades. He tenses for a second, surprised, then relaxes into it.
“You inhaled a lot of smoke,” I say quietly.
“So did Vaelor.”
“Vaelor’s not the one who can’t stop coughing.”
A mug appears in front of me. I look up and Vaelor’s standing there, steam curling from the cup. The burns on his forearm are inches from my face and I have to force myself not to reach for them.
“Coffee,” he says. “Drink.”
I take it, wrap my hands around the warmth. Bring it to my lips.
“Oh.” I blink. Take another sip. “This is really good. What did you put in it?”
“Sugar.”
“Just sugar?”
“Cream and sugar.” He smiles. “I should have known.”
Vaelor goes back to the stove. The bacon’s done, the eggs are nearly there, and he’s moving with that easy efficiency he always has—like feeding people is just what he does.
I get up before I think about it.
“Let me help.”
He glances over his shoulder. “You don’t have to.”
“I know. I want to.”
Something shifts in his expression. Softer. He nods toward the cabinet. “Plates are up there.”
We work in silence, setting the table, laying out food. Our arms brush as we reach for the same serving spoon and warmth blooms under my skin—not from him, from somewhere inside me. A low hum behind my ribs that I don’t have the energy to question.
I shake it off. Keep moving.
Footsteps on the stairs.
Heavy, tired. Then voices—Locke’s low rumble, Kyron’s clipped response, Rane saying something I can’t make out.
They come into the kitchen looking exhausted, covered in soot and sweat. The fire must be out. Kyron’s carrying something in his hands—dark, misshapen, still faintly smoking.
