"Oh, good." He sounds genuinely pleased. "You wore it."
"You knew about it?"
"We all did." He holds a mug out to me. "Do you like it? The scent?"
I wrap both hands around the mug. "Yeah, actually. It's strange though. Do you think it smells strange?"
Finn considers this seriously, like I've asked a real question deserving a real answer. "A little unusual, maybe. But not bad."
"Not bad at all," Malcolm agrees. He's turned back to the eggs. What's salvageable anyway. "Why, are you not sure about it?"
"It’s not that." I bring the collar up to my nose again without thinking about it, catch myself, lower it. "I keep expecting to change my mind. But it's… I don't know. Calming in a way."
Malcolm glances back at me over his shoulder. His face is softer. "Then keep wearing it. When the scent fades I'll ask Arden to bring another one."
"How well do you know Arden?"
"Well enough. Mostly through Chase." Malcolm plates what's left of the eggs. Finn is already reaching past him to start fresh ones. A silent, practiced exchange that speaks to years of this exact dynamic. "The OPA works alongside the registry so Finn's crossed paths with him a lot too."
Chase. All those months and I had no idea how deep the web went.
I want to ask more. I decide against it.
Not yet. There's only so much I can hold at once.
"Sit down," Finn says. "I'm fixing Malcolm's disaster."
"It wasn't a disaster," Malcolm says. "It was rustic."
"It was char."
I sit.
Alex comes in while Finn is plating the real eggs. He takes one look at the pan Malcolm abandoned, raises an eyebrow, and then looks at me.
His eyes rest on the shirt the same way Malcolm's did. The same quality of attention, like he's checking off a list in his head.
"Suits you," he says.
"Everyone keeps saying that."
"Because it's true." He pours himself coffee. "How are you feeling?"
"Better than yesterday."
"Good."
He sits across from me. Malcolm drops into the chair at the end. Finn distributes plates and we eat. Something about the four of us around this small table with the morning light coming through the window feels—strange. Not bad strange. Just strange. Like I've slipped into a life that was built for someone else and discovered it fits anyway.
They can tell I don't want heavy conversation. I don't know how they can tell but they can, and they don't push.
Finn starts it. "Malcolm, tell her about the pancakes."
"Absolutely not."
"He used salt instead of sugar," Finn tells me anyway. "We had to throw the whole batch. Even the dog wouldn't touch them."
"We didn't have a dog."
