He’s trying to pick anaccessory.
A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. “Uh... the uhm… the studs?”
His face lights up. “You’re right, Storm.” He grabs my shoulders, squeezing gently. “You’re totally right. The studs have more of that rugged space pirate vibe. That’s perfect for econ!”
I’m really afraid to ask how. “Space pirate?”
“Yeah, like Han Solo but with more edge.” He loops the chosen eyepatch over his head, adjusting it until it sits at what I assume he considers a rakish angle. “Micah said I looked more like a budget Nick Fury, but what does he know about fashion?”
“More than you, probably.”
“Harsh but fair.” He grins at his reflection, clearly pleased with the result. Then he turns and kisses me, quick and happy, like I’ve just given him the best gift he’s ever received.
“Space pirate, it is!” He raises the other eyepatch victoriously in his fist and heads for the door. “Gotta go tell Micah the good news. He owes me twenty bucks now.”
“You bet on which eyepatch I’d pick?” I ask in disbelief.
“Yeah! I bet on studs, he bet on flames. Thanks for coming through, babe!” He’s already halfway down the hall. “You’re the best!”
I wave weakly at his retreating form. “Happy I could help.”
The study goes quiet.
I stand there for a moment, still processing the whiplash of that conversation. Here I was ready to have a deep emotional moment about trauma and self-acceptance, but Sean was apparently just stuck between two aesthetics.
“He seems to be adjusting well.”
I spin around.
Villeneuve is standing in the corner of the study in a spot that was definitely empty thirty seconds ago. He’s pouring wine from a decanter that also wasn’t there before.
“For fuck’s sake.” My heart is hammering. “Do you practice that, or does it just come naturally?”
“Practice what?” He offers me a glass. The wine is deep red, almost black in the dim light.
“The appearing out of nowhere thing. The looming.” I take the glass because my hands need something to do. “You’re not even pretending to not be menacing anymore, are you?”
His lips curve. “Would you prefer I pretend?”
“I’d prefer a warning. Maybe a bell around your neck.”
“I’ll take it under advisement.” He moves to the chair by the fireplace, which he lights with a snap of his fingers, and settles into it. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine.” The words come out automatically. “I’m not the one in stasis.”
“No.” He takes a sip of his wine. “You may not be a wolf, but the bond goes both ways. I know you’re deeply attached.”
I look down at my glass, watching the firelight play through the dark liquid. “I love him,” I admit. The words feel strange to say out loud, especially to him. True, but strange. “All of them.”
Villeneuve is quiet for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is softer than usual. “Lucky boys.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
The silence goes on a beat too long, full of everything we’re both avoiding.
“Have you heard anything from your mysterious contact?” I ask finally. “Vyse?”
“No.” He swirls his wine. “But Vyse isn’t one to give regular updates. He works at his own pace and reports when he has something worth reporting.”
