He grabbed the bottle and took a sip, then he leaned in beside Tamsin, resting his forearms on the rail. “You look good,” he said to her.
She smiled. “So do you.”
He snorted. “Liar.”
“Okay,” she said suddenly, looking to each of the three of us. “I have an important question.”
Nox’s brow lifted. “That’s never good.”
Bishop’s mouth twitched. “Define important.”
Tamsin glanced at both of them with a faint genuine smile. “Tell me your favorite joke.”
I blinked, taken aback. “A joke.”
“Yes,” she said. “A joke. One you actually find funny. I’m tired of having to be serious all the time and, while you’re all sexy and hot when you’re trying to be intimidating, I want something different.”
Nox scoffed. “You love it when we intimidate you.”
She didn’t answer. She just blushed.
Honestly, it was adorable.
Bishop inhaled slowly, as if bracing himself. “Is this an interrogation?”
“It’s a morale exercise,” she stated, deadpan. Then added, softer, “We’ve seen enough fighting and blood and death lately. I want to laugh.”
Nox stared at her for a beat, then nodded once, as if he understood the real request beneath the playful one.
“Fine,” he said. “But I’m going last.”
“Coward,” Tamsin teased.
“I’m strategic,” he replied.
“All right then,” I said. “I’ll go first.”
Tamsin turned toward me, expectant.
I smirked, already feeling slightly ridiculous. “It’s not… particularly refined.”
“Good!” she exclaimed. “Refined is overrated.”
I sighed. “A patient comes into my clinic—back when my clinic was still a clinic—and says, ‘Doctor, I think I’m a moth.’”
Nox’s mouth quirked. Bishop’s eyes narrowed slightly, like he was trying to predict where it was going.
Tamsin folded her arms, her brow furrowing. “Go on.”
“So I say, ‘Why on earth did you come to me? You need a psychiatrist.’ And the patient goes, ‘I know.’”
I paused just long enough.
“And I say, ‘Then why are you here?’”
Tamsin leaned in. “Yes?”
I lifted my hands in helplessness. “And then the patient says, ‘Because your light was on.’”
