"You catfished me to your apartment to destroy me," I say, grinning now, "and then you came in your underwear against the wall before I even got my jacket off. Masterful revenge plan, sweetheart."
He chucks a throw pillow at my head. "Fuck you, it was a good plan until your stupid scent ruined everything."
"Right. My stupid scent. That's the flaw in the flawless revenge catfish."
"I'm going to kill you." He tries to scowl, but his mouth is fighting a smile. It’s dangerously easy right now.
Then the humor drains out of his face, leaving something raw behind. He drops his gaze to his coffee mug. "I also knew," he says, his voice stripped of the bratty edge. "Since the door. Since your scent hit me. I knew what we were."
I freeze.
"Mate bond. I figured it out because of Jude and Milo. I knew, and I didn't tell you, and I still tried to hate you."
I run that through my head. The wall-grind, the blowjobs, the dare, the shop. Benji knew. He carriedthis is my materight alongsidethis is the asshole who ghosted me, and he just kept fighting.
"You knew this whole time," I say slowly. "And you still fought it."
"I didn'ttryto hate you." His voice cracks. "Ididhate you. And you were still my mate. Both things were true."
I grab the front of my shirt—the one he’s wearing—and haul him toward me. I kiss him hard, his coffee sloshing over the rim of the mug. His hand comes up to grip my jaw, and when I pull back, his eyes are fierce.
"You swiped right out of spite," I say, "knew I was your mate the second I walked in, and still kicked me out three times. I’m amazed I survived you."
His mouth twitches. "You almost didn't."
We swing by his place so he can change. The apartment smells like him and Shay. Shay is sitting on the couch when we walk in. He looks up, does the math—Knox, morning, Benji in Knox's clothes, the claiming bite—and his face settles into a hard, grudging acceptance. The active hostility is gone, replaced by a warning glare. He gives me a single nod. I nod back.
"If you're staying for breakfast, we don't have eggs," Shay says, immediately looking back down at his phone.
I'll take it.
Benji emerges from his bedroom in fresh clothes, combat boots laced up, eyeliner perfectly applied. He looks armored up again, the electric blue streak in his hair catching the light.
He grabs the jacket he claimed he left at my shop. I don’t mention it.
"Ruth wants to meet you," he says, not looking at me. Like it’s just a casual Tuesday detail.
"Your grandma?"
"She says if you ghost me again she'll key your bike and salt your lawn."
"I don't have a bike or a lawn."
"She'll figure something out. She's resourceful."
***
By noon, I'm back at the shop. The buzzing machines, the smell of green soap, Mars grunting at the schedule. Normal Tuesday. I'm wiping down my station, staring at a DM from Benji—a photo of a poster design with the captionthe bassist wants COMIC SANS, pray for me—when my phone rings.
My mom's name flashes on the screen.
My grip tightens on the phone. The last time she called me in the middle of a shift, my dad was in the hospital. The time before that, same thing. My body knows the drill before my brain catches up.
"Mom?"
She’s crying. The words come out in fractured, breathless pieces: "Your father. The hospital. Relapsed. They called me from the ER."
The shop fades to static. The music, the machines, Mars—it all drops away. My blood goes ice-cold, and that familiar, numb efficiency takes over. Task, task, task.
