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LILA
Emily has commandeered the sitting room, a bottle of pinot open on the coffee table and a true-crime documentary already queued up. She claims she likes the ones with voiceovers that sound “authoritative but hot.”
I briefly wonder if she knows her cousin moonlights as a true crime podcaster. I feel like she would’ve mentioned that by now. Then again he strikes me as the type who makes his own family sign NDAs.
Theo’s sprawled at the far end of the couch, sleeves rolled to his elbows, pretending he’s above this.
He’s so not.
His wine glass is half-empty, and he’s been side-eyeing the screen ever since the narrator pronounced fibula wrong.
He’s not fooling anyone. He loves this kind of thing just as much as I do. What I wouldn’t give for one weekend with him. Face masks, charcuterie, the whole-ass, slightly indulgent self-care fantasy.
The mental image that pops into my head is filthy in a way it has no right to be, Theo lounging back with a smear of guacamole-colored face cream on his absurdly perfect cheekbones, cucumber slices covering his eyes.
Of course, this kind of thing requires the most comfortable attire, and my mind takes a swan dive straight into grey sweatpants territory. Namely: do they make them long enough for his legs and… the rest of his architectural advantages? Because if not, I’m willing to crowdfund a custom pair at this point.
“Do you ever get tired of this stuff?” Emily asks, yanking me out of my dirty thoughts by the collar. She gestures to the screen as a detective explains blood spatter trajectories.
“Often,” Theo says.
“Never,” I answer.
They both look at me.
“What?” I say. “It’s both educational and entertaining.”
Theo makes the faintest sound of disapproval. “He mispronounced spatter too,” he mutters. “Splatter is what toddlers do with paint.”
Emily rolls her eyes and drains the rest of her glass. “You two are insufferable. I’m putting on something normal next.”
“Define normal,” I say. “Also, you picked this.” I tried really hard to discourage it for her sake, but she was insistent.
“Something that doesn’t involve bodily fluids.” She cringes.
I bark a laugh. “I mean. Not all body fluids are crime related,” I offer. “Some are recreational.”
Theo chokes on his wine, which makes me giggle even more.
Before she can fire back, the front door opens. The sound carries through the hall—heavy steps, the muted jingle of keys.
Emily’s smile catches halfway, fragile and bright all at once. “Bear’s home,” she tests the words.
I can tell she wants to be excited about it, but is unsure whether she can be or not with the current company.
Theo gives me a disgruntled look, but doesn’t say anything.
Emily’s already halfway to the door. “You’re back! We’re in here. Did you finish up early?”
“Something like that,” Baryn’s voice carries down the hall.
He rounds the corner, travel coat still on, expression as pleasant as I’ve ever seen him, which isn’t saying much. “Well. This is cozy.”
Theo leans back, the picture of irritability. “Welcome home.”
The words hang there—without a response—a beat too long before Baryn’s gaze drifts to me. “Careful, Lila. Hang out around here for too long and people will start talking.”
“And deprive you of the thrill of being the center of every rumor? I’d never,” I answer evenly.
