"I don't care. I'll do it. Vaughn will help."
"I would," Vaughn confirms from the pool table.
Devin is sobbing. Full-body, ugly, the kind of crying he's probably never done in front of anyone. The kind that foster kids learn to do silently in beds that aren't theirs, in rooms that aren't theirs, in houses that will never be theirs. Except now he's doing it in a bar that has his mug on the shelf and his stool at the counter and a man holding him who understands exactly what it costs to pretend you're fine.
Robin holds on. Doesn't let go. Doesn't soften the grip or pat his back or do any of the careful, managed comfort that Devin's used to. Just holds him, hard and real, while the pride stands witness.
Knox pours water. Jason brings food. Toby appears with a blanket and drapes it over Devin's shoulders without comment. Ezra and Nico stay in their corner, present but not pressing. Vaughn leans against the pool table and watches with the quiet attention of a man who doesn't have many words but puts all his weight behind the ones he uses. Ash stands with him, they share a silent look.
"Eat," Jason says, setting a plate in front of Devin. Roasted chicken, pasta, salad. Enough food for three people.
Devin eats. Slowly at first, then faster, and I realize he's been skipping meals. Not dramatically, not starving, but eating less. Stretching the budget. Making the savings last.
After dinner, I take him upstairs. He sets his backpack on the bed.
"You can unpack," I say.
"Just until the apartment."
"Just until the apartment. But your shirts can hang in the closet until then."
He unzips the backpack. Shirts in the drawer. Books on the nightstand. Toothbrush in the bathroom. The whole life, distributed into spaces that have been waiting for exactly this.
"Silas?"
"Yeah?"
"You said you love me. In a laundromat."
"I did."
"I said it back."
"You did."
"I meant it."
"I know."
"It's the first time anyone's ever said that to me." He's sitting on the bed, looking at his hands. "I love you. Not a caseworker's 'we care about you.' Not a foster parent's 'we're glad you're here.' Someone looking at me in a laundromat under terrible lighting and saying 'I love you' and meaning it."
"I meant it."
"I know." He looks up. "Will you say it again? Now that we're not green?"
"I love you."
"Again."
"I love you, Devin."
"One more time."
"I love you. And you're not green anymore. The lighting in here is much better."
He laughs. Real, warm, exhausted. Then he pulls me down onto the bed and curls against me and falls asleep in the time it takes me to pull the blanket over us.
The apartment will be ready soon.