“Julian?”
“Hey,” he says, and he doesn’t sound like he’s joking. That alone puts me on edge. “You need help.”
It’s not a question.
“I’m…”
“…not fine,” he finishes for me. “Yeah. I know.”
I swallow. “I didn’t ask…”
“You didn’t have to,” he says. “I’m coming over. I’ll bring Zane. Don’t argue.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at my phone for a long second. Then I drop it onto the couch and rub both hands over my face.
Ten minutes later, my doorbell rings.
Julian doesn’t knock. He never knocks. He walks in like the world has always belonged to him. Zane follows, hoodie on, camera bag slung over his shoulder like he’s ready for a documentary calledThe Fall of a Rich Idiot.
They both stop short when they see me.
Zane blinks. “Wow.”
Julian’s eyes scan my face, my posture, the way I’m standing like I’m bracing for impact. “Ok,” he says carefully. “So that livestream look wasn’t performative.”
“No,” I say.
Something in Julian’s expression softens. Not pity. Recognition.
“Have you eaten?” he asks.
“No.”
“Of course you haven’t,” he mutters, already walking into my kitchen. He opens the fridge, recoils. “You have the food storage of a vampire.”
“I forgot.”
Julian makes a disgusted sound and orders delivery without asking me what I want. Zane drops his bag on the coffee table and looks around.
“So,” Zane says, casually. “Tomorrow.”
My stomach knots.
Julian turns. “Before tomorrow, you’re eating.”
“And before eating,” Zane adds, “you’re not allowed to spiral.”
I snort weakly. “Good luck with that.”
They don’t laugh.
Julian sets his phone down and looks at me like he’s negotiating a ceasefire. “Tell us the plan.”
I hesitate.
That’s new. The hesitation.
