“About this specifically.”
“Especially about this specifically.” I pick up my tablet. “He’ll survive.”
My phone goes off — Aiden, then Aurora, then Aurora again. I type later and put it face down. Nova clocks it. Doesn’t ask.
That’s one of the things about her.
I make eggs.
She eats standing — still mid-something. Brick positions himself at the edge of the counter.
“Don’t,” I tell him.
She puts a piece down for him without looking at me.
“He’s not supposed to have that,” I say.
“He was very polite.”
“He’s always polite. The whole system runs on being polite until someone gives in.”
“Has it worked before?”
“Every single time.” I crack another egg. “You just became the newest victim.”
“I prefer willing participant.”
“That’s what they all say.”
She gives him another piece. We finish breakfast standing at the counter and the morning does what it does — light through the window, the city starting up outside, two people who’ve found a rhythm without deciding to.
She wanders while I clean up. Stops in the doorway of Aurora’s old room. Doesn’t go in.
“Your sister lived here,” she says.
“For a while. She needed somewhere. I had it.”
She turns and looks at me across the kitchen. “You gave it to her without being asked.”
“It’s a good room. Good light.”
“Jax.”
“South-facing. Gets the morning.”
She looks at me the way she looks at things she’s figured out and decided not to push. Turns back to the room. “Good light,” she says.
“Yeah.”
She comes back into the kitchen. Refills her coffee. Doesn’t say anything else. Neither do I.
She leaves at nine.
Finds her dress. Her shoes. Her bag. Clean exit. At the door she stops. Looks down at the shirt.
“Your shirt,” she says.
“Keep it,” I say.