"Even better."
Robin hands me my apron. "Silas, your booth's open. Try not to stare at my barista so hard the customers notice."
"I don't stare."
"You stare. It's fine. It's good for business. The regulars think you're a romance novel."
The shift passes the way Saturday shifts do. Busy at noon, steady through the afternoon, the familiar rhythm of steam and pour and tamp and pull. Silas is in his booth withPiranesiand a coffee, and every time I look over he's there. Present. Not going anywhere. During my break we sit across from each other and read, feet touching under the table, and the silent part is better than most conversations I've ever had.
At six, I clock out. Clean up. Robin packs the pastry bag, extra full.
"Come to the bar tonight," Robin says, boxing up the last of the croissants. "Jason's cooking. Saturday dinner is a thing, a recent thing, but still. The whole pride shows up. You should come."
I glance at Silas, who's closing his book at the booth. He catches my eye and nods, just barely.
"Would you want to?" he asks, crossing to the counter. "It's casual. Just food and people and probably Robin embarrassing both of us."
The pride. All of them. Knox and Vaughn and Jason and Ezra and Nico and Toby and Robin. The people Silas calls family. The family he's inviting me to see.
"You don't have to," he adds quickly. "It's a lot. I know crowds aren't —"
"I'd love to."
He blinks. "Really?"
"They're your family. And Robin already knows everything about us, so it's not like it'll be a surprise."
"Robin knows everything about everyone. It's disturbing."
"It's endearing."
"That's because he likes you. Wait until he starts stress-baking at you."
We walk to the bar together. Not holding hands, we're in public, in daylight, and I'm not sure where those boundaries are yet. But close. Close enough that our shoulders brush and neither of us corrects the distance.
From the outside the bar it looks like every other building around, brick, two stories, a garage attached to one side. But inside it's warm and loud and smells like garlic and bread and home. The bar itself is old oak, polished by decades of use, and behind it the kitchen is open and chaotic and Jason is cooking something that makes my stomach growl audibly
"That's a good sign," Jason says, pointing his spatula at my stomach. "Means you have taste."
"Jason," Silas says warningly.
"What? I'm complimenting his digestive system."
Knox is behind the bar. Not serving, just existing there, the way I've gathered he exists everywhere: quietly, with authority. He nods at me. One nod. I nod back.
"That's practically a speech for Knox," Robin says, dropping his bag of café leftovers on the bar. "Welcome to Saturday dinner, Dev."
Vaughn is at the pool table, not playing, just leaning against it with a beer. He gives me a wave that's halfway between friendly and assessing. Toby is on one of the bar stools, reading, an actual romance novel with a shirtless man on the cover, which he shows no embarrassment about whatsoever.
"The good ones have actual plot," he tells me when he catches me looking. "Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
"I know," I say. "I've read all of Courtney Milan's catalogue."
Toby's face lights up. "You have?"
"Twice."
"Oh, we're keeping him," Toby announces to the room. "Silas, we're keeping this one."