“It’s six in the morning.”
“They owe me a favor.” He steps away to make the call, and I hear fragments of rapid conversation—something about water damage, something about today, something that sounds suspiciously like“yes, I know it’s early, Martin, but remember Vienna?”
I should be doing something useful. Mopping. Moving equipment. Salvaging what I can. Instead, I just stand there, watching Mal handle my crisis like it’s the most natural thing in the world. When did this happen? When did I start relying on him? When did I start wanting to?
He hangs up and turns back to me. “They’ll be here in two hours. Full team. They’ll have the water extracted and the drying equipment set up by noon.”
“Two hours?”
“I told you—they owe me a favor.”
“What kind of favor involves water damage at six AM?”
“The Viennese kind.” He grins, but it fades when he sees my face. “Hey. Come here.”
I don’t move. If I move, if I let him hold me, I’m going to cry again, and I’ve done quite enough of that this morning. But he moves instead. He wraps his arms around me, pulling meagainst his chest, and that warm, smoky scent surrounds me. His hand comes up to cradle the back of my head.
“It’s going to be okay,” he says quietly.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do, actually. Because I’m going to make sure of it.”
I let myself lean into him. Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel his heartbeat against my cheek, steady and strong.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For coming.”
“You called me.” His voice is strange, thick with something I can’t identify. “You actually called me.”
“You gave me your number for emergencies.”
“I know. I just didn’t think you’d use it.”
I pull back enough to look at his face. In the gray morning light, his eyes are very dark, and something in them makes my chest ache.
“I don’t usually ask for help,” I admit.
“I know.”
“I hate asking for help.”
“I know that too.”
“But I called you. Because I—” I swallow hard. “Because I wanted you here. Not just because of the pipes. Because... I wanted you.”
Something shifts in his expression. His gaze drops to his wrist, to the leather bracelet with its three ruby stones, and even in the dim light, I see the fourth stone begin to glow. The black fadesand red seeps in, spreading through the stone like wine through water.
Another ruby. Another invitation.
“Well,” he says softly, watching the transformation. “That answers that question.”
“What question?”
“Whether you actually trust me.” He touches the new ruby with his fingertip. “Apparently you do.”
I should be thinking about what this means. About contracts and consequences and the complicated mess of feelings and magic that’s binding us together. Instead, I’m thinking about how much lighter I feel. How the panic that was crushing my chest has eased. How standing here in my flooded studio, watching the dawn break through the windows, I no longer feel alone.
“Four down,” Mal says. “Three to go.”
