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The apology lands heavier this time. I do not forgive him. Not yet.

But I understand him. And understanding, I fear, is often the first crack in the wall.

Alcott hums softly, giving a tiny clap. “Touching. Tragic. Very poetic. I give it an eight.”

Edward shoots him a murderous look.

“What?” Alcott asks. “I am coping.” He places an exaggerated hand upon his chest.

Despite myself, a laugh threatens the back of my throat. I press my lips together until it passes. Edward notices. His gaze catches mine for half a second before he looks away. The movement is small. Almost nothing. Yet I feel it.

Alcott points a blade toward Edward. “Your turn.”

“No.” Edward’s eyes narrow.

“Come now,” he playfully jests.

“No.” His nostrils flare, and he begins cutting his section faster, harder in frustration.

Alcott tsks at his brother scoldingly. “You are being terribly rude to our new companions.”

“They are not companions.” Edward stares down at his work, his cold words lingering in the atmosphere.

Lazarus glances around the bloodied shop. “I would argue we have moved beyond acquaintances.”

Edward’s jaw flexes and I study him quietly. The mysterious man of my luncheons had always been careful with his words, but this version of him is even more guarded. Every time Alcott steps near a truth, Edward moves to block him.

Protective. Or afraid. Perhaps both?

Alcott opens his mouth again, but Edward cuts him off, his eyes sharper than the blade he is holding. “Sharing our story is not necessary.”

His tone leaves little room for argument.

Naturally, Alcott ignores it. “We were children,” he says lightly.

Edward goes still in warning. “Alcott.”

His brother continues as though he has not heard him. “Our parents were dreadful people. Addicts. Liars. Opportunists with a remarkable talent for making poor financial decisions.”

“Enough,” Edward threatens as his voice grows louder.

Alcott’s smile remains, but something strange passes behind his eyes. A shadow. Not metaphorical. Not entirely.

Alcott hops up onto the table adjacent to our working area and explains in a nonchalant attitude, “They sold what they owned. Then they sold what they should have protected.”

The room turns colder as my hand pauses over the crate. Edward’s face has gone dangerously blank. “Alcott,” he says again.

This time, the name is not a warning or a threat. It is a plea. Alcott blinks, and the shadow vanishes. His expression rearranges itself into one of pleasant amusement so quickly I nearly convince myself I imagined the change.

“Apologies,” he says. “I do get carried away.”

Edward says nothing.

But his hand has curled into a fist at his side, knuckles white as his fingernails dig into his palm. I want to comfort him. I want to reach out and touch the man I’ve been longing for, but I resist.

I understand then that whatever lives beneath their polished coats and sharp tongues is not meant for this room.

So I do not ask.