Beneath Our Scars.
Victor reads it in silence.
His expression changes by a fraction. Interest, though he'd call it approval if asked.
"That sounds like something Luca would hate," he says.
"He doesn't have to like it." I scroll to the sample line beneath the title, where the words agency and dignity sit neatly inside a sentence designed to make extraction look like invitation. "He has to feel responsible for refusing it."
Victor takes a slow drink, watching the screen over the rim of the glass. He dislikes indirect pressure because it requires patience and gives him fewer moments to enjoy himself, but even he can recognize a door when someone else opens it for him. His eyes return to the title, then the photograph, then Blake's notes still visible in the side panel.
"And Luther?"
"We don't ask for Luca first. We ask for a discussion about protecting the sanctuary's public identity." I close Blake's notes before Victor can fixate on the insult of them again. "Luther hears protection and stays in the room. Blake hears movement around Luca and reacts. Maceo documents. Grayson absorbs the household fallout. The family shows us the order in which they break formation."
Victor offers me a smile as I return to the pressure file, adding one line beneath the hallway incident notes:Blake's response increases when Luca is framed as exposed. Repeat through advocacy language, not direct threat.
19
Grayson
The light in the kitchen's too sharp this morning, bright enough that it bounces off the marble island and makes the dull ache behind my eyes pulse harder every time I turn my head. I leave the overheads on anyway because the counters are covered in cupcake liners, mixing bowls, grocery bags, Rosalie's birthday crown, and three separate lists Luca made last night while pretending he wasn't worried about Blake. If I dim the lights, Luca'll notice. If Luca notices, he'll ask me to sit down, and if Isit down before the first tray's even in the oven, then everyone else'll realize I'm not holding together nearly as well as I look.
I reach for the flour in the pantry and pause with my hand around the bag, trying to remember whether I came in for flour, sprinkles, or the pink sugar Rosalie chose because she said regular sugar looked "too quiet." My fingers are doing a small, restless flutter against the paper, not enough to spill anything but enough that I close my grip tighter until the bag crinkles under my palm. The pressure helps. So does the list in my head: cupcakes for school, cupcakes for the house, breakfast for the kids, toast for Blake, smoothie with protein because he'll pretend coffee counts as food, dinner prep before Luther's call, and a quiet check on Maceo because he's gone still in a way that never means nothing.
"Gray," Luca says from behind me, and his voice is soft enough that I know he's already noticed more than I wanted him to.
I turn with the flour tucked against my chest and give him the bright version of my smile, the one that usually buys me at least ten minutes. He's by the sink in one of Luther's oversized shirts, curls sleep-mussed, bare feet on the tile, a handwritten party list held loosely in one hand. There's a smudge of pink frosting near his wrist even though we haven't technically started frosting yet, which is impressive enough that I almost point it out to distract him. Instead, I lift the flour and say, "Cupcakes first. Rosalie wants pink dragons, cookies, and maybe stars, and I refuse to be the man who tells an almost-four-year-old that her creative vision's got logistical limits."
Luca's mouth twitches, but his eyes stay on my hands. He comes closer without rushing, setting the list on the counter before he takes the flour from me. "You put the eggs in the pantry," he says, not accusing, just careful. "Then you asked me if Blake had eaten while you were making Blake's toast, and after that you reminded yourself to check Luther's mood out loud."
I glance toward the pantry shelves, where the eggs are sitting beside the sprinkles and the backup napkins. "The eggs wanted privacy."
"Gray."
"I know." I reach for the eggs, then stop when Luca's fingers brush my wrist. His touch is warm, and the contrast makes me realize my own skin's colder than it should be with the oven preheating beside us. I cover it by taking the carton carefully and setting it on the island. "I'll sit after the batter's done."
"You said you'd sit after you unloaded the groceries," Luca says, and when I try to reach for the bowl, he shifts it closer to himself instead. "Then you said you'd sit after you answered the school email. Then you said you'd sit after you made sure Blake didn't take his laptop into the bathroom."
"That one was important." I pick up the whisk because it gives my hands something normal to do. "He looked guilty, Luca. A man only looks that innocent when he's already committed the crime."
Luca lets out a breath that's almost a laugh, and for a few minutes, I let that be enough. We start the batter side by side, measuring and stirring with the kind of concentration two adults shouldn't need for a boxed mix. Luca cracks an egg and gets shell in the bowl, then looks so wounded by the betrayal that I take over fishing it out before he decides baking's morally opposed to him. The flour dusts the counter. The mixer rattles. The first tray fills unevenly because my hand slips on the scoop and Luca insists one cupcake having twice as much batter as the others is probably fine because Rosalie believes in abundance.
The frosting turns out worse than the batter. It's too pink, too sweet, and somehow lumpy despite both of us reading the directions twice. Luca holds the bowl at arm's length and studies it like it might start speaking. "This can't be what the picturemeant," he says, stirring again with helpless determination. "It looks angry."
"It looks festive," I tell him, though it absolutely looks angry. "Aggressively festive. Rosalie'll respect that."
"She's going to demote us."
"She can't. We've got seniority."
Luca looks up at me, finally laughing, and the sound loosens something in my chest that's been tight since before sunrise. I reach over to wipe a smear of frosting from his cheek, but my fingers misjudge the angle and drag the pink across his lower lip instead. Luca stills, the spatula held halfway over the bowl, his eyes lifting to mine with a softness that makes the bright kitchen feel quieter than it is. I should apologize or joke or reach for a towel, but I'm too tired to choose the safer thing quickly enough, so I brush my thumb under his lip and kiss him.
He tastes like sugar and warmth. His free hand comes to my chest, steadying me or himself or both of us, and for a moment, the ache behind my eyes eases because there's only Luca's mouth and Luca's fingers curled in my shirt. I lift him onto the counter more for closeness than heat, guiding him back from the bowl before he can get frosting on both of us, and he folds his arms around my neck with a quiet sound that makes me want to stay there until the oven timer, the lists, and the whole outside world forget where we are. I tuck my face against his throat and let him hold me, just for a breath longer than I should.
"I love you," Luca says into my hair, his fingers moving slowly at the back of my neck. "I also love you enough to say you're scaring me a little."
I keep my eyes closed because his neck's warm and because the truth's harder to dodge when I can see his face. "After the party," I tell him. "After Blake eats something that isn't coffee, and Luther gets through his call without deciding to buy a competing company out of spite, and Maceo stops being quiet inthat way that makes me want to put a hand on his chest to make sure he's still breathing normally. I'll sleep after that."
