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Gage goes quiet beside me, but Maisie’s fingers keep moving through tortoiseshell fur. “Not the way you do. Some of it is diminished. Some emotions barely register. That doesn’t mean I’m incapable of caring.”

Riveted, I brace an elbow on the desk. “What’s the difference?”

“I don’t need to feel your pain inside my body to understand that hurting sucks. Sympathy is a choice. If I care about you, I choose not to hurt you.”

I blink. “And if you do? Hurt me, I mean?”

“Then I apologize.”

“Even if you don’t feel guilty?”

Her brow arches. “An apology isn’t only about guilt. If I damaged what I value, why wouldn’t I repair it?”

Well. Shit. That lands right on top of a decade of apologies I’ve collected from perfectly normal people who felt terrible and changed nothing.

“Okay,” I say. “And sorry, if I’m asking too many questions, feel free to tell me to fuck off. No offense taken.”

“I will.”

The answer comes so fast I laugh. “No warning shot?”

“You’ll know where you stand with me at all times. It’s the single most efficient thing about me.” Her shoulders pull back. “Also, stop apologizing for existing. Women get trained into it. If I’m annoyed with you, you’ll hear about it out loud. You’ll never have to guess.”

I nod toward the mini fridge. “What’s in there?”

“Parmesan.”

“That’s a violent sign for cheese.”

“It’s forty dollars a pound.” She states like she’s announcing the weather. “I plan meals around what’s on sale and hit three stores every weekend to save eleven dollars, and then I buy cheese that costs more than the meat. I’m aware of the contradiction. I’ve made peace with it.”

“That,” I inform her, “is the most human thing anyone has said to me all week.”

Gage snorts into his coffee. “Ask her about spaghetti.”

“Spaghetti is a noodle,” Maisie says instantly. “Not a dish.”

Her fingers pause in the cat’s fur. This is no longer an assessment. She’s compiling.

“What?” Gage asks, stroking his beard, his nervous tic.

“You met over a dead body,” she begins. I bite my lower lip, playing innocent. “Buried it together, then cyberstalked each other. She’s a hacker and a bartender. Likes bows. Wears intimidating stockings⁠—”

“Gage is intimidated,” I interrupt. “I’m empowered.”

Her mouth twitches. I point at her. “I saw that.”

“No, you didn’t.”

I shut up because I value my life, but I smile because she knows I value my life.

Maisie continues. “Brains, beauty, and teeth. Marzipan imprinted on her. She didn’t flinch when I told her my diagnosis. Didn’t blink when I tried to scare her. She asks questions instead of pretending she already understands.” Her gaze settles on me and stays. “Comfortable with being uncomfortable.”

At last, she faces her brother, and a long moment passes between them. “Fine. I give up. Go do the thing.”

My gaze ping-pongs between them, my ribbons swinging. “What thing?”

Gage sets his coffee on the desk and rises. The teasing fades, leaving a quieter energy underneath. Stronger. He crosses the small office and bends to kiss his sister’s cheek, but Maisie stands and hugs him instead. The cat flops onto the desk, and I reach out to pet it, because it’s a cat and it’s there.