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Usually I end up eating half of them before I even get here, but the thought counts, and everyone in this house should really be grateful I bring offerings at all. Today, though, I just peel the wrappers open and set things down in neat little piles on the table without touching much of any of it.

Across from me, Marco watches with the kind of attention that would feel invasive on anyone else. On him, it never does. Marco has dark curls and two ribbons tied in his hair, like softness decided to take human form just to spite the rest of us. His eyes are hazel, and he’s one of the sweetest things I have ever seen in my life.

Which is exactly why I don’t understand why the hell he’s with Alexei.

Not because Alexei is bad. He isn’t. He’s just… Alexei. Cold, huge, terrifyingly silent, built like a man who could break bones with one hand, and somehow still gets looked at by Marco like he’s worth every tender thing in the world.

Disgusting, honestly.

Cute.

But disgusting.

Marco blinks down at the candy in my hands, then up at me. He looks thinner than when I first met him. More delicate around the wrists and the collarbones. His light is still there. Marco always seems to glow in some way no matter what state his body is in, but it’s dimmer now.

Alexei is in denial.

I’m not.

I’m pretty sure he’s dying, even if nobody in this house is willing to say the word out loud. Least of all Alexei. He moves around Marco like devotion and fear got sewn together into one body, like if he loves him hard enough then death might get confused and walk in the other direction.

It won’t.

Still, for reasons I don’t fully comprehend, I always feel calmer around Marco. He lets me talk. And I talk a lot, but he actually listens, and he never interrupts me, which makes absolutely no fucking sense because I spend half our conversations talking enough for both of us. Probably three of us.

I lift one of the bags I brought. “Do you want to try this? It’s strawberry.”

Marco smiles and shakes his head. I think he can’t really eat much lately. Or maybe not sweets. The thought sits badly in my stomach, so naturally I bully it aside before it gets sentimental.

Then he asks, “Are you okay?”

I blink at him. “Me?”

His smile gets a little more knowing. “Yes. You.”

“I’m good.”

He tilts his head, and when Marco tilts his head like that, it means he sees straight through your bullshit and is too kind to make you feel bad about it.

“You seem stressed.”

I scoff lightly and focus on tearing open another wrapper. “Maybe I just enjoy radiating torment.”

I try to play it off. I really do. But it doesn’t work, because he keeps looking at me with those warm hazel eyes like there’s room for the truth if I decide to put it somewhere.

So eventually I swallow and say, “Let’s say someone is messing with my head, and I don’t like it.”

Marco reaches over and touches my shoulder, his hand light and careful. Then he caresses it, gentle enough to calm a wild animal.

“Do they know that?”

I let out a humorless laugh. “They probably enjoy it.”

That gets the tiniest crease between his brows. “And why do you stay around them, then?”

I snort. “Stay around them? I can’t get rid of them. They’re a leech.”

Marco chuckles under his breath.