"Thanks," I say.
"He's pack, Vaughn."
Knox leaves. Twenty minutes later, Jason appears with a plate of food and a careful expression.
"Knox told me," he says. Not everything — Knox would have been vague, protective of Robin's privacy. Just enough. "Is Robin okay?"
"He's surviving. He thinks he's fine."
Jason sets the plate down. Sits on the stool where he always sits, between the kitchen and the garage. "Ash and I were talking the other day about commercial kitchen spaces. There's a listing on Oak Street — used to be a sandwich shop. Small, but the kitchen is already built out. Walk-in cooler, gas range, hood system. Rent's reasonable."
I stare at him. "You've been looking at kitchen spaces?"
"Ash mentioned once that Robin's dream is to have his own place. Something small. A café, maybe. I just... saved the listing. In case."
"In case."
"In case it's useful someday." Jason shrugs. He's not looking at me, he's looking at the garage wall, and his voice is casual in a way that means it's anything but. "Silas has been reading about small business regulations in our state. He didn't tell me to tell you that. I'm just mentioning it."
This pride. These ridiculous, interfering, quietly mobilizing people.
"Jason."
"Yeah?"
"Thanks."
"It's just information. For whenever." He picks up the empty plate and heads back to the kitchen. At the doorway he stops. "Vaughn? Don't tell Robin. About any of it. He'll feel like a project."
"I know."
"He's not a project. He's family."
Jason leaves. I sit in the garage with my tools and my phone and the image of Robin's bruise burned behind my eyes.
I text Robin. Not pushing. Just present.
Thinking about you. Hope your day got better.
The response takes two hours. When it comes, it's not words.
It's a heart emoji. Red. Simple. No joke attached, no ironic commentary, no deflection.
Just a heart.
It's the first emoji Robin has ever sent me that isn't sarcasm or performance. It's small and simple and it saysI'm here and I'm scared and I don't have words for this but I want you to know.
I save it. I don't know why — it's just a heart, just a red shape on a screen. But it's the first real thing Robin has given me since the bruise, and I'm keeping it.
My lion settles.
We wait.
Chapter 15
Robin
Monday morning. 4 AM start. Gordon changed the dessert menu for a corporate gala at midnight — a single text, no apology, no acknowledgment that I'd already prepped three hundred chocolate ganache tarts — and now I'm standing at my station rebuilding from scratch on four hours of sleep.