"It's perfect," I say, and step back because I have to.
"Everything Robin makes is perfect," Ezra offers from the counter, and Robin beams at him — turns the full wattage of that smile on Ezra like Ezra hung the moon — and I take a very controlled breath.
Dinner is devastating.
Not the food, though that's incredible too — braised short ribs that fall apart, roasted root vegetables in some glaze that tastes like honey and balsamic, bread that's still warm from the oven. Robin made all of it, for us, and there's something about watching him serve food that knocks the air out of me. The care of it. How he remembers Silas doesn't like raw onion and left itoff his plate. How he gave Ezra extra bread because Ezra always wants extra bread.
He does this for everyone. I know that. He stress-bakes when he's worried. He shows love through food, feeds people the way other people say "I care about you," and none of it is specific to me.
"Control freaks," Robin says, shaking his head with a grin. "All of you. Ash alphabetized my spices, Knox organizes the bar like a military operation, and you—" His eyes find mine and hold. "Must be exhausting, being that controlled all the time."
"Some of us like control," I say.
"Some of us like making controlled people lose it."
The table goes still. Silas clears his throat. Ezra hides behind his wine.
I hold Robin's gaze because looking away would mean he won. Something in his expression shifts — surprise, maybe, that I didn't flinch. A flicker of something real underneath the performance.
Then he blinks and the mask snaps back. "Dessert? I need to check the cakes."
He gets up, Ezra following to help, and I watch them laugh together by the oven. Robin touches Ezra's arm while he talks, casual and easy, the way he touches everyone. My lion makes a sound I swallow before it reaches my throat.
"Your knuckles," Silas says quietly.
I look down. White-gripping my wine glass again. I release it, stretch my fingers. "I'm fine."
"He's like that with everyone," Silas says, not unkindly.
"I know."
Robin returns with dessert. Sets a lava cake in front of each of us, but when he leans down to place mine, his breath ghosts across my ear.
"Extra salted caramel," he murmurs. Just for me. "I remembered."
Then he's gone. Serving Silas, laughing at something, spinning back into performance mode like he didn't just reach inside my chest and squeeze.
He remembered. One comment, weeks ago, that I liked salted caramel. And he built it into the dessert like it mattered. Like I mattered.
Then Ash and Jason come through the door, loud and happy, and the moment breaks open into chaos. Toby and Knox might join later, but given how late it is, I assume they're busy, probably wrapped around each other as usual.
Robin flows through the rest of the evening the way he always does. Touching shoulders, refilling glasses, making sure everyone's fed and laughing and comfortable. The perfect host. The perfect performance. He treats all of us exactly the same.
I excuse myself to the bathroom to breathe.
When I come back, he's at the sink alone, everyone else in the living room.
"You don't have to clean."
"I don't mind." He glances over his shoulder, and for a second he's just tired. Not performing, not flirting, just a man doing dishes who worked all day and cooked all night. "You okay? You seemed tense at dinner."
"I'm fine."
"You say that a lot."
"It's true a lot."
He shuts off the water. Turns to face me, leaning against the sink with his arms crossed and his sleeves pushed up and soap suds on his forearm. "Did I do something wrong?"