Page 61 of Pack Frenzy
Cassian tucks his sunglasses into his black T-shirt. “We figured if you were still asleep, it meant you trusted us not to burn the place down.”
“That, or I was too tired to care.”
He grins, and there’s something almost boyish about it that doesn’t match the sharp angles of his face. “We’ll take either.”
Rowan closes the map, his movements precise and unhurried. When he looks at me, it’s steady—no expectation, no judgment, just attention that’s like being seen all the way through. “You should eat something.”
“Was planning to.” I tug at my hem, suddenly feeling exposed. “But not really in the mood for breakfasty food. Any ideas?”
Suddenly, the words feel vulnerable leaving my mouth, like I’m asking for something I have no right to expect, and that they might have already eaten or have other plans. Like they might look at each other and remember that this is a trial arrangement, that I’m here on borrowed time, that they don’t actually owe me anything beyond the terms written in some contract I didn’t bother reading when I signed it.
Eli claps once, triumphant, shattering the moment before it can turn heavy. “Excellent. I know the best place. Walking distance, amazing food, and they don’t judge you for ordering dessert first.”
“Have you ordered dessert first?” Cassian asks.
“Only twice. And technically, carrot cake could be considered a vegetable if you think about it philosophically.”
“I don’t think philosophy works that way,” Rowan says.
“Not with that attitude.”
We fall into step together, and it’s natural, like I’ve been doing this with them my whole life.
Rowan locks the door behind us; the latch clicks like a small oath. Eli holds the screen for me with a flourish, then pretends it was nothing.
“Boardwalk wind.” Cassian tosses me a lightweight hoodie like an excuse to look after me without saying it. I pull it on over my head, inhaling his scent of amber, black pepper, and leather that’s underneath the laundry detergent.
We take the stairs two at a time, sun on our shoulders, the path skirting dune grass and the soft hiss of the bay.
The town unspools along the curve of the bay—whitewashed storefronts, faded awnings, wind chimes tinkling in salt air. And I’m…weirdly okay being part of it.
Gulls call above like they own the sky, and maybe they do. Everything here is lived-in, worn smooth by time and touch and the relentless work of wind and water. It’s nothing like the sterile hallways or the city’s sharp edges back home. It feels like something I might have dreamed once, back when I still let myself dream.
We pass a candy shop with glass jars the color of jewels: ruby reds and emerald greens and bright sapphires. A surf shop sells shells for obscene prices, and I catch myself wondering who would pay twenty dollars for something the ocean gives away for free. A thrift store advertises vintage everything, and through the open door, I smell sun-warmed wood and nostalgia, the ghost of someone else’s memories.
Eli ducks into the candy shop for “research,” emerging with saltwater taffy in an assortment of impossible colors. The bag crinkles as he digs through it, rejecting three pieces before selecting one with the gravity of a surgeon choosing instruments. He presses it into my palm, fingers lingering just long enough for warmth to transfer between us.
“Try it,” he says. “Trust me. You’ll want a whole bag of that flavor before we go back home.”
Home. The word sticks under my sternum.
The wrapper sticks slightly when I peel it away. The taffy’s pink, aggressively so, and soft enough that it yields immediately under my teeth. Strawberry-sweet and too soft, and amazing--exactly like he promised. It sticks to my molars, and I have to work my jaw to unstick it, probably looking ridiculous in the process.
I laugh around it anyway. “You’re not wrong.”
“I never am,” he says, popping a green one into his own mouth. “It’s both a gift and a curse.”
Rowan carries the paper bag with the rest of the candy, even though Eli keeps insisting he can manage. There’s something quietly protective in the gesture, in the way he simply takes the bag without asking, like he’s decided this is something he can do, one small burden he can carry. I don’t know what to do with that, with the casual care that doesn’t demand anything in return.
Cassian lingers behind us, pausing to examine a rack of postcards outside a souvenir shop. Most of them are garish, oversaturated photos of sunsets and lighthouses, the kind of thing tourists buy and never send. But one catches my eye that’s a watercolor of the bay at night, the boardwalk lights glowing like fireflies suspended over dark water. The artist caught something true in it, something about the way beauty and loneliness can exist in the same breath.
He catches me looking and adds it to the pile without a word.
This shouldn’t hit as hard as it does. It’s just a postcard, probably costs less than a coffee, meaningless in the grand scheme of things. But my throat tightens anyway, because he noticed what I was looking at, because he thought I might want it. After all, he didn’t make me ask.
No one’s bought me anything in so long. Nothing that wasn’t required, nothing that wasn’t transactional. The postcard feels like proof that I exist outside of paperwork and assessments, that someone saw me want something and thought that wanting mattered.
I can’t thank him without my voice breaking, so I don’t. I just meet his eyes for a second, and whatever he sees there has him smiling and makes me want to hug and kiss him at the same time.
