Page 86 of We Are Just Us

“Would you prefer I lie?”

“Maybe…a little.” Kieran kissed the side of Rory’s head.

Rory huffed a sound that was half laugh, half exhale—wet and shaky, not quite there yet, but real. The first real one since this whole thing started.

Outside, the morning was settling in, the thick June gloom pressing a heavy, gray fog against the kitchen window. The pale, diffused light spilled across the counter, making the coffee sit cold and forgotten between them.

Mabel lifted her head again, looking toward the door.

“We should make those flyers,” Kieran said.

“Yeah.” Rory stood. He wiped his face again, took a breath, and moved toward the coffee maker. His hands were still unsteady. “Fresh pot first.”

Kieran watched him, this man who’d driven through the dark looking for a dog that wasn’t his, who’d fallen apart at a kitchen table and was now making coffee like that was the next thing to do, because it was.

Hank was out there somewhere. They hadn’t fixed everything. They probably couldn’t fix everything, not in one morning, not in one conversation.

But Rory was here. Making coffee. Staying.

TWENTY-SIX

DEVON FOAM: Dinner. Our place. 7. Patti’s making a turmeric thing. Bring wine or don’t, I already bought some.

He’d almost said no. The house was wrong without Hank—too quiet, too still, Mabel pacing the rooms looking for her brother with a patience that made Kieran’s chest ache. He spent the day putting up more flyers, calling the shelter again, refreshing the Nextdoor post until the comments blurred together.

Sending prayers! Have you tried leaving a dirty shirt outside? My cousin’s dog came back after twenty-two days!

Twenty-two days. He couldn’t think about twenty-two days.

But Devon hadn’t been asking. Devon’s invitations were like her coffee—delivered with the assumption you’d accept, and mild disappointment in your character if you didn’t.

So here he was. Wine in hand. A cat on his lap.

The cat, a massive orange tabby, had materialized the moment Kieran sat down. No greeting or tentative sniffing. Just twelve pounds of fur launching itself onto his thighs like a cannonball with a purr.

“Pickles,” Patti said from the stove. “He likes men more than we do.”

Pickles kneaded Kieran’s thigh twice, claws finding the exact gap between muscle and bone that would cause maximum discomfort, then settled into a vibrating loaf.

Devon and Patti’s house was small and cluttered with clear intention, bookshelves everywhere, mismatched mugs, a collection of succulents on the windowsill that ranged from thriving to suspicious. The kitchen smelled like coconut and ginger and possibly a forest floor.

A second cat appeared on the chair beside him. Smaller. Gray. A face that suggested she’d been personally wronged by the universe and was keeping a list.

“Juniper,” Devon said, not looking up.

Juniper did not blink. Juniper did not move. Juniper stared at Kieran with the flat, unblinking intensity of a parole officer.

“She’ll do that all night,” Patti said. “We’ve stopped questioning it.”

“Where’s Kazax?” Devon asked the room.

Patti glanced at the ceiling. “Plotting.”

She set the bowl in front of him. It was golden. It was steaming. It had something green floating on top that might have been a garnish or might have been a small plant that had fallen in by accident.

“It’s a golden turmeric soup,” Patti said. “With fermented cashew cream, pickled radish, and ashwagandha.”

“What’s ashwagandha?” Kieran asked.