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I watch her go with a pang of guilt.

Theo leans closer, “I think you just broke her heart.”

“I think I just broke mine,” I whisper back, eyes lingering on the last golden puff before it disappears around the corner.

My stomach growls.

He looks at me with mock sympathy. “You want me to sneak you one later? I’ll even personally ensure it doesn’t end in digestive betrayal. Full-service experience. I know where Evelyn keeps the stash of dairy pills. Silver tin, second shelf in the guest bath, tucked behind a box of individually wrapped soap petals, next to the monogrammed face towels.”

“Is that also part of the classified intel you charmed her into giving you access to?” I look at him, forcing my face to look unamused.

“Perhaps,” he says, lip quirking at the corner.

I bump my shoulder against his, letting it linger just a second too long and smiling despite myself. I can’t tell if he’s joking. “Don’t tempt me.”

Something about him offering me a cheese puff like it’s a goddamn truce with whatever tension has been humming between us makes my chest feel funny.

He looks at me then, and something in his expression flickers. Not teasing. Not smug. Just… soft. Like he’s trying to memorize the way I’m looking at him or maybe trying not to say something that would remind us both just how close we’ve come to something… something before. How it felt. How easily it could happen again. If we let it.

I should say something. Something snarky. Something safe. But the words get tangled somewhere between my throat and my mouth.

And for just one unguarded second I let myself look at him too. Not as the man who drives me insane. Not as the grumpy bastard I used to have to fight myself tooth and nail to keep from falling into bed with. Just… him.

The man who notices when my fingers are cold. Who doesn’t hesitate to defend me when Baryn turns into a crass asshole. Who makes my drink without asking how I take it, because he remembers—from god knows when. Who takes one of my closest friends blurting out my deepest fantasies in front of a room full of people in stride, deflects on my behalf, then cracks a joke about it later just to make me laugh instead of spiral… because he somehow seems to know me.

And I hate it—remembering what it felt like to really be known. By Laurel. And how I haven’t had that since. But sometimes, in moments like this, I think that if I were ever capable of letting someone in like that again… it could easily be him.

Things like how she knew the difference between my real laugh and the one I use when I’m performing. That I used to pretend I was invisible during family dinners because being looked at meant being evaluated—and I was always found lacking.

She knew I couldn’t walk into a place without mapping out the exits. That I rehearse conversations before I have them, and then hate myself for not sticking to the script.

She knew I don’t believe in unconditional love. Not really. Not for me. Not outside of her.

I think the difference with Theo is that I wouldn’t have to tell him those things. He’d just… know. He notices everything, even the stuff I don’t say out loud.

It’s so disarming.

My stomach does that aggressively unhelpful thing it does sometimes when he’s not being a smart ass. When he’s just careful and unexpectedly gentle in ways that undo me a little.

Without thinking, I reach for the urn necklace resting just below my collarbone and give it a violent little shake—just enough to make the ashes inside jostle. Immature? Maybe. Therapeutic? Weirdly, yes.

But it’s what I do when I’m mad at her—for being dead, mostly. For not being here to see the way I’m unraveling in real time. Sure, I’ve got Calla, Serena, and Emily. But they’re not Laurel. No one could ever be.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Theo glance over. He doesn’t say anything, just clocks the movement, cocks his head slightly like he’s trying to decide if I’ve finally lost it, then hesitantly goes back to his stack of papers.

We don’t speak for a beat, just long enough for the room to settle again, paper rustling under our fingers, the air thick with whatever it is we’re both pretending not to feel. I let my focus drift back to the files, flipping through one more stack—and then I freeze.

A folder, thicker than the others, a red rubber band wrapped tightly around it.

I snap the band trying to unwrap it.

“Careful.” He crosses the space between us and gently takes my hand. His thumb moves over the reddening mark. “You okay?”

“It just snapped.” I mean for it to come out nonchalant, but my voice is weaker than I expect, and the contact—his skin on mine for the second time today, warm and unhurried—sends my brain into a static buzz. He’s just being kind. That’s all it is. Still, it takes more effort than I’d like to keep my hand steady in his.

I force myself to turn back to the file, not breathing as I skim the first few lines, something deep in my gut telling me that this might be what we need to point us in the right direction.

“Fucking shit,” I breathe.