Ash's face doesn't change. That's how I know it's bad — when Ash shows nothing, it means everything is happening underneath, the kind of cold fury that doesn't need expression because it's already planning.
"How bad?" he asks.
"The bruise or the situation?"
"Both."
"The bruise is ugly but it'll heal in a week. The situation—" I stop. Choose my words. "It's escalating. Six months ago it was yelling. Three months ago it was throwing towels. Last month it was whisks and cutting boards. Yesterday it was a pan. Robin's defending him. Says it's the industry. Says he aimed for the wall."
"And you believe that?"
"I believe Robin believes that. Whether it's true doesn't change the trajectory."
Ash is quiet for a long time. He turns his coffee mug in his hands — slow, deliberate, the way he does everything. I've never seen him rush a single movement.
"Our parents," he says finally, "were together for way too many years. They cheated on each other constantly. Screamed at each other. Both had someone else every few months and didn't bother to hide it. And they stayed, because they had two kids and no idea what else to do and they'd been told their whole lives that this was just what marriage looked like."
He looks at me. "Robin learned something from that. Not what they thought they were teaching — they thought they were teaching him that you tough it out, you weather the storm, you keep the family together no matter what. What Robin actually learned was that you take it. You perform fine. You smile through the bad days and you don't ask for help because asking for help means admitting it's bad, and admitting it's bad means admitting you chose to stay in something bad, and that means—"
"That there's something wrong with you for staying."
"Yeah." Ash exhales. "He'd rather believe Gordon's treatment is normal than accept that he spent years being abused. Because if it's abuse, then he's the person who let it happen. And that's too close to what our parents did to each other."
The kitchen is quiet. Early morning light through the window. I think about Robin last night, pulling his sleeve down, sayingdon't call it that.The panic in his voice. The refusal to name the thing because naming it makes it real.
"I can't push him," I say. "He shuts down."
"No. You can't. Robin pushes back twice as hard when he's cornered." Ash sets his mug down. "But you can be ready. For when it breaks."
"When?"
"When. Not if. The trajectory you described doesn't plateau. It escalates until something gives — either Robin leaves or something happens that forces the issue."
I don't want to think about what "forces the issue" might look like.
"What do I do?"
"Exactly what you're doing. Be there. Don't stop seeing it even when he tells you not to. And when it breaks—" Ash meets my eyes. "Don't let him be alone."
I go back to the bar. The conversation sits heavy in my chest — the weight of knowing something is wrong and not being able to fix it, which is the worst feeling a mechanic can have. Engines I can fix. People who won't let me under the hood are a different problem.
Knox finds me in the garage. He doesn't ask — he's the alpha, he doesn't need to ask, he's been watching the same thing I've been watching from a further distance.
"How bad?" Same question Ash asked.
"Bad enough that his boss left a bruise."
Knox goes still. The alpha stillness — the one that makes the air heavy and makes every shifter in range want to bare their throat. "Robin know you're telling me?"
"No. And he can't know. He'll shut down."
"Understood." Knox leans against the doorframe. "If he needs out of that kitchen, the bar kitchen is his. Full access. No questions asked."
"Knox—"
"Not as a favor. Not as charity. Robin's the best cook any of us know, and the bar could use a proper pastry menu. If the time comes, it's a job offer, not a rescue."
I look at him. He looks back. We've known each other for years and there are times when Knox's ability to see the right move still catches me off guard.