I laugh, some of the tension cracking loose. “I have no idea. We can ask Callie when they get here.”
“When are they?—”
The front door opens before he can finish.
Nikita chirps and hops off the couch, trotting across the floor to wind between Chris’s ankles. He’s still in the doorway, keys in hand, and even from here I can see his eyes are red-rimmed. His shoulders carry a different kind of tension than when he left. Not the coiled, defensive posture I’ve grown used to. Looser. More exposed.
I’m closing the distance before I realize I’ve moved.
Chris crouches to scratch behind Nikita’s ears, letting the cat demand his attention, and I wait. Give him the moment. When he straightens, I’m there, and I don’t say anything—just wrap my arms around him and hold on.
He stiffens for a second. Then his arms come around me, and he exhales against my hair.
“Hey,” I say into his chest.
“Hey.” His voice is rough.
Wyatt doesn’t crowd us. I hear him moving back to the stove, giving us space while staying close. When Chris finally loosens his grip, I pull back but keep hold of his hand, tugging him toward the kitchen.
Nikita trots after us, meowing pointedly.
“Yeah, yeah,” Chris says. “I know.”
He pulls open the cabinet where we keep her treats, shakes a few into his palm. Nikita inhales them with zero dignity.
“You’re going to spoil her dinner,” I say.
“She’s a cat. She doesn’t have dinner. She has an ongoing series of snacks.” Chris shakes out a few more treats, then—with exaggerated ceremony—reaches for the cabinet where we keep the actual cat food. “Unless you think she’s ready for the main course?”
“It’s six o’clock,” Wyatt says from the stove. He’s got water on to boil now, the onion sizzling in a pan. “Dinner’s not for another hour at least.”
“Hear that?” Chris tells Nikita. “You have to wait.”
She meows in protest. He gives her one more treat.
I catch Wyatt’s eye over Chris’s head. He raises an eyebrow slightly. You or me?
I take the opening. “So. How was it?”
Chris is quiet for a moment, focused on closing the treat bag, returning it to the cabinet. When he turns around, he leans against the counter, arms crossed. Not defensive, just bracing.
“Hard,” he says. “Good.” A pause. “She made me cry. In the first twenty minutes.”
“That tracks,” I say. “She is one of the best.”
Chris moves to the fridge, pulls out a beer, twists off the cap. Takes a long drink. “Apparently.” He leans back against the counter, and I settle beside him. “I thought we’d do introductions. Background stuff. Instead she just asked me why I was there, and I told her.”
Wyatt glances at me. I give a small nod. Keep it casual. Don’t push.
“You told her about Vicente?” Wyatt asks, like he’s asking about the weather.
“Yeah.”
Neither of us says anything. Chris takes another drink. Nikita, having abandoned hope of more treats, jumps onto the counter. Wyatt nudges her off without looking. She jumps back up. He nudges her off again. It’s a familiar dance.
“She said it’s treatable,” Chris says eventually. “The dissociation. All of it. She said they’re symptoms, not who I am.”
“She’s right,” I say.
