Page 122 of Bite Marks & Broken Hearts

“Here, you might as well have some. Then I’m building a wall of oat milk cartons in the fridge to hide it.”

I picked up a piece with my good hand. “Sounds like a productive afternoon.”

Felix dropped into his chair with a huff, pausing to adjust his keyboard, even though it seemed perfectly aligned to me. His fingers hovered over the keys, tapped once, then pulled back. He shook his head slightly and started again, this time seeming satisfied with whatever internal criteria had been met.

“Do you ever get jealous?” I asked, spinning the chair slightly. “Having to stay here while they go out and have fun?”

Felix’s fingers paused over the keyboard. He turned to me, eyebrows shooting up behind his messy fringe.

“Have…fun? You mean get stabbed, shot at, and covered in various bodily fluids while fighting the forces of evil?”

“Well, when you put it that way…”

“Trust me.” He pushed his giant headphones back from one ear. “I’ve seen the state they come back in. Once, Rory returned with half his intestines hanging out. And before that, Kit had to get thirty-seven stitches. And Seb…” He shuddered. “The things I’ve had to watch him heal from? No thanks. I’ll stay here with my nice clean keyboards and zero percent chance of dismemberment.”

“So you don’t feel left out?”

“Left out of what? Getting thrown through windows? Having bits of you catch fire?” He gestured at his screens. “I see everything anyway. Multiple angles, usually in HD. Sometimes I even add dramatic background music.”

I snorted so hard I choked on my own spit.

Felix continued tapping away, and I stood up to stretch. Something snagged my attention—a wad of paper fresh from Felix’s printer that looked like…someone’s social media feed?

My uninjured hand snatched it up. The top photo was a distinguished-looking man in his late fifties, grey peppered through his dark hair. He was crouched in a park, attempting to wrestle a miniature dachshund into a tweed jacket while wearing an expression of utmost academic seriousness. The caption read:Can tweed protect against squirrel attacks? Early results inconclusive. Poor Aristotle remains traumatised.

“Felix, what on earth is—”

There was a name above the photo: James Stott.

“Hmm?” Felix spun around. “Oh. That. Put that back, please. I need to give it to Seb later. He makes me print stuff because he just can’t with email attachments.” He rolled his eyes, turning back to his screen.

“But… what is it?” I whispered.

Felix threw me a glance. “It’s quite sad, actually. It’s his ex-boyfriend from like, decades ago. Seb likes to know how he’s doing. I offered to make him his own profile, but he didn’t want one. James Stott is an Oxford professor, so I made a fake account looking like someone in academia, and he accepted me straight away.”

“An… Oxford professor? You’re joking!”

“Nope.”

“Sothisis his type?” I waved the paper at Felix like it had personally offended me, which only served to deepen the poor guy’s confusion. I was surprised Rory or Priya hadn’t told him about our… whatever it was.

I stared at the photo, my stomach churning more violently than a stormy sea.Of courseSeb’s ex was an Oxford professor. Of course he had a cute dog, was distinguished and successful and funny, and probably knew which wine to order at fancy restaurants. And here I was, a failed boating tour guide who’d run away from a tourist village with nothing but a backpack and mounting guilt. The gap between who I was and who James was yawned wider than the Atlantic. What could Seb possibly see in someone like me whenthiswas his type?

“Umm… I guess so?”

“When did Seb ask you for this?”

Felix stared at me. Some level of understanding was starting to dawn on his expression.

“Felix! When?”

“Umm… it’s sort of a rolling monthly thing…” Felix bit into his lip, as if he knew he should stop talking.

His eyes kept darting to the paper in my hand, his fingers twitching against his keyboard. When I finally set it back in the printer tray, he leaned over and carefully adjusted its position, aligning it precisely with the edges.

“But really,monthly?! Well he’s not over him, then, is he?” I wanted to snatch the paper back and crumple it with my fist. I desperately triedto ignore how my heart was pounding.Twenty years.Twenty years, and Seb still needed monthly updates.

With a groan, Felix jumped up from his chair, his headphones clattering to the desk. “No, no. I didn’t mean to—” He tore his hands through his hair. “Look, I don’t even know if Seb actually even looks at the printouts I give him.”

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