Then the city came up in the window, all orange and white and humming with intent, and I remembered: nothing about this was normal, but maybe that was the point.
I set the coffee down, reached for the baby, and watched Braham’s hands adjust, careful and precise, as he passed her back. Our fingers touched. The jolt was small, but real.
“Thanks,” I said.
He just looked at me, gold eyes steady, and nodded.
I cradled Grace, let her settle, and watched the sunrise over the city. I could feel Braham’s gaze, but I didn’t look up. For the first time in my life, I didn’t mind being watched.
* * * *
The housekeeper Vera had, overnight, made the kitchen a shrine to baby containment. There was a bouncy seat on theisland, a wipe dispenser like a piece of avant-garde sculpture, and a nest of sterilized bottles so dense I could have fortified a medieval castle with it.
Grace was in the bouncer, hands flailing, face pointed at me like she was mapping my weaknesses for later use.
I poured coffee, then set about making toast for myself. Braham had already plated his breakfast—a slab of egg white frittata that could have doubled as drywall, plus the kind of toast that suggested he’d never touched a carb before this century.
I took my place at the island, propped my elbows on the granite, and observed the man as he ate. No mess, no crumbs. He forked each bite with an even, measured pace, never once looking down at the plate.
All focus on me.
I broke first. “Don’t you get bored? Eating the same thing every day?”
“Routine is efficient.” He didn’t slow down. “It leaves more energy for things that matter.”
I grinned. “Like running an evil megacorporation, or fighting crime as a secret werewolf vigilante?”
He shrugged. “I’m not much for costumes.”
Grace gave a sudden, shrill yelp. The bouncer amplified it, springs squealing like gym equipment in a prison riot. I reached out and bopped the seat with my palm, setting it gently in motion. She went quiet. Soothed by movement, like most small mammals.
Braham watched the move. “You have a knack for it,” he said.
“For what? Babysitting? Or improvising with the resources at hand?”
He considered. “Both. You adapt.”
I stole the better half of his toast, bit it clean through, and shrugged. “That’s what separates us from the lower primates.”
He grinned, all teeth and minimal amusement. “You know, in the hierarchy of things, toast theft is grounds for war.”
I licked butter off my thumb. “Then you better step up your perimeter defenses.”
He pushed his plate to the side, as if the meal had served its purpose, then leaned in. “You make this look easy.”
I gestured at the kitchen. “You make this look like a CIA safehouse.” I took a slug of coffee, let the heat sting the inside of my cheek, and made a show of relaxing. “You don’t really strike me as the domestic type.”
He blinked, slow. “Neither do you.”
Grace hiccupped, then went to sleep mid-bounce, head slumping forward in the undignified droop of a passed-out drunk. I watched her for a second, pulse picking up at the sight of her so tiny, so oblivious to how many things wanted her dead.
“I’m just surprised you eat breakfast at all,” I said. “I figured you’d fast until lunch, then do protein shakes until the full moon.”
He ignored that. “Do you want something more substantial than toast?”
“This is fine,” I said. “Besides, if I eat too much, I get slow, and then the baby wins.”
He nodded, as if conceding the point.
