Silas is on the couch with his book. I sit next to him. Not on the other end, not at a careful distance. Right next to him,close enough that our arms touch. He shifts to make room, lifts his arm so I can tuck against his side.
"What are you reading?" I ask.
"The Lions of Al-Rassan."
"You're reading my recommendation?"
"I'm reading all your recommendations. In order." He shows me the bookmark, my note, the one from the pastry box, the smiley face. "This is number four."
"How is it?"
"Beautiful and devastating and I'm going to cry at the end, aren't I?"
"Oh, absolutely. It's going to wreck you."
"Good. I like being wrecked by things you love."
Robin, passing by with a tray of something, makes a sound like a teakettle. "I can't with you two. I actually can't. Vaughn, are we this cute?"
"No," Vaughn says from the pool table. "We're cuter."
"Debatable!"
I readThe Goblin Emperorsequel that Toby lent me. Silas reads my recommendation. The pride moves around us. Knox in the garage, Jason in the kitchen, Robin between the café and the bar. Ezra and Nico at their laptops. Toby crying about chapter fifteen of his book.
At 11:30, I realize I need to go back to the shelter. Shower, change, get ready for my shift at noon. The real world, the one with countdowns and savings goals and a room on the third floor of a building with a rainbow flag.
"I should go," I say.
"I'll take you."
"You don't have to —"
"I know."
He gives me a ride to Haven House. Parks out front, in daylight, visible. Doesn't hide. Doesn't drop me at the corner. Parks his motorcycle in front of the rainbow flag and walks me to the door.
"Tonight?" he asks.
"I work until six."
"I'll be in the booth."
"You're always in the booth."
"And you're always behind the counter. It works." He kisses me. Soft, sure, public. A woman walking her dog on the other side of the street glances over and keeps walking. A kid on the shelter's porch, maybe fifteen, headphones on, watches with open curiosity.
"See you at noon," Silas says.
"With your coffee. Black."
"You know me so well."
"I'm learning."
He rides away. I go inside.
The shelter is quiet on Saturday mornings. Most people are out, working, sleeping in, existing somewhere that isn't here. I climb to the third floor. Our room. Tyler's bed is unmade, Tyler absent, a note on my pillow: