I don't know how long we sit like that. Long enough that my breathing evens out. Long enough that the ache becomes manageable.
I open my eyes.
Rhys is watching from the armchair.
He's doesn’t look away or pretend he didn't see. He just watches with those warm brown eyes, steady and patient. His expression is soft in the way it goes only when he's looking at me.
There’s no jealousy or tension. The look on his face is almost like relief. Like this is what he wanted for me and he's glad to see it.
I hold his gaze.
He nods once, small and certain.
I close my eyes again and let Malcolm's purr do its work.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out, still tucked against Malcolm's chest.
A text from Finn:You make better soup than Malcolm makes eggs. Don't tell him I said that.
I smile despite everything and save the message.
"What?" Malcolm asks, voice rumbling through his chest.
"Nothing," I say. "Just Finn."
"Is he okay?"
"He's going to be fine."
The purr continues, steady and sure.
Across the room, Rhys has leaned back in his armchair. His eyes are closed now, almost like he's sleeping, but one corner of his mouth has the faintest curve to it.
I let myself believe everything is going to be okay.
For now, in this room, with these people, maybe it already is.
Chapter 15
Finn
The whiskey burns going down but I take another pull anyway, passing the bottle to Malcolm in the dark.
We're sitting in the garden behind the house, the night air cool enough that I can see my breath when I exhale. Malcolm's sprawled in the other chair, legs stretched out, his face half-shadowed by the single solar light stuck in the flowerbed.
It took the whole 24 hours for me to kick that stomach bug and even now, two days later I'm still loathing the thought of actual food. But when Malcolm suggested whiskey? Well that isn't food, is it?
Vee went to bed an hour ago. I watched her climb the stairs, looking steadier than she did a week ago but still carrying that careful quality, like she's not sure the floor will hold.
Rhys watched her go too. He was in the armchair in the living room and he tracked her the whole way up the stairs. Didn't move until her door clicked shut. Then he went back to staring at whatever middle distance he stares at.
I think about that now, in the dark. My chest goes tight with something I'm not ready to name.
Malcolm takes a long drink and sets the bottle on the arm of his chair with a dull thunk.
"Chase called today," he says.
I wait.
