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“Club business.”

I narrow my eyes.

She smiles.

There’s no damn reason that should feel like a win for her.

“Exactly.”

“Great. Then as club business, you can tell Miss Mercy I’m going back to class, and as not-concern, you can stop looking like you’re two seconds from locking me in a coffin for safekeeping.”

Nevermore coughs into his hand.

I point at him without looking away from her. “Laugh and die.”

Sweet’s smile grows, but strain still pulls tight around her eyes. “I’ll stay inside. I won’t go outside alone. I won’t talk to anyone wearing crow bones or whatever. I won’t accept mystery jars from Boogie. Did I miss anything?”

“Raven.”

“What?”

“Not crow. Reaper patch is a raven.”

“Fine. No mystery raven men.”

“And if you get another text, you show me.”

Her smile slips. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No, Bitter.”

I step closer, not touching or crowding, just close enough that her breath changes and mine wants to follow. “You got a man carving ours into your car. You got a Reaper riding past your new school. You got a phone buzzing with messages that put that look on your face. You can hate me, smart-mouth me, call me bossy, call me whatever sweet little insult you’ve got tucked behind your teeth, but you will show me the texts.”

Her throat moves.

Her eyes drop to my mouth just once.

Then she whispers, “You don’t get to sound like that after telling me you don’t do more.”

She keeps trying to make rules out of things I do by instinct. Protect. Push. Take over. I don’t know why she thinks wanting her safe means I owe her softness. I should step back. I don’t.

“That wasn’t more.”

“Liar.”

The word is soft.

Soft enough to hurt.

Mercy calls her name from the school doorway, breaking whatever stupid thing is stretching between us.

Sweet steps back first. “I’ll see you around, Bitter Adams.”

She says my last name carefully, like she’s correcting the world by speaking.

“Sweet.”