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His eyes slid to her, watching her sidelong to see how she was handling his two increasingly drunk siblings. He was inwardly pleased to fine her, completely at ease—neither rigid nor outwardly judgemental.

He almost leapt out of his skin when she leaned over, moving dangerously close to his ear and whispered, “So… what’s Wisteria signing to Hemlock?”

Glancing over, he almost choked on his drink when he saw what his sister was saying. “Ah, she’s demanding Hemlock make her a drink. She may have also said a few vulgar things about you.”

With a bemused smile, she nodded. “Yes, well. I can’t expect to be in the same room as Wisteria Brightmore and not be insulted.”

Oleander grinned. “The mortal realm might freeze over.”

“Oh, it absolutely would,” she agreed.

They watched as Hemlock flicked his hand out from under his chin toward Wisteria as he brought her a glass of water.

Wisteria glared at him before both signing and saying aloud, “Do I look like I drink water?”

Hemlock winked mischievously and walked away before she could berate him further, leaving the water glass on the table.

Wisteria stood briskly, straightening her clothes before stomping off to make her own drink.

Wilder leaned close to Oleander again, her voice a gentle hum against his skin, “What does that sign mean? The one Hemlock used just now to Wisteria?”

Oleander bit back a laugh. “It’s how you say, ‘fuck you.’”

He put his flat hand under his chin and flicked it toward her. “Not to be confused with ‘thank you.’”

He then laid his hand on his chin and moved it in a curve downward toward his other hand. There was mirth in her voice as she agreed, “Yes, I do not want to confuse those two signs.”

They were quiet for a while, watching out the window that spanned the entire wall as the families from all Circles trickled into the garden.

“Wilder?”

“Hm?” She continued to stare out the window, sipping her drink thoughtfully.

“We’re project partners.”

“Yes?” She shot him a confused glance.

“And you’re in my home with me and my siblings.”

“Are we just listing facts now?”

“No, but—” He paused, feeling strangely nervous, “You’ve called my siblings by their first names just now.”

“I can’t very well call you all ‘Brightmore,’ can I?”

“What about me?” His voice came out a rasp, borderline begging. He took a long drink of his cocktail, looking pointedly away.

“What about you?” Wilder asked, and there was an overly-pleased, teasing note to her voice that made him want to die from embarrassment, while simultaneously the tenor of it coursed through his blood.

Attempting nonchalance, Oleander offered, “You could call me by my forename.”

“Would you like that?” she asked.

He turned to face her, and found that she was observing him, contemplating something.

He cleared his throat. “If you’d like.”

“Alright then… Oleander.” She spoke his name like it was a secret shared between the two of them. He stifled a shiver. “Only if you do the same.”