"Breakfast," Ira says, sitting up and leaving a cold patch on the bed where his body had been. "Soren makes the coffee. I make the food. If we let him near the stove, he'll try to cook with essence and we'll all end up having visions of the seventeenth century instead of eating."
I watch him move, methodical, efficient, his shaved sides and tattoos making him look like a riot cop who wandered into a fantasy novel. He doesn't ask if I'm staying. He doesn't make me explain why I'm still here. He just assumes that because I'm here, I'm fed. It's a different kind of safety, one lined with high-protein meals and terrifying competence, and I'm still not sure if I should be running for the door or asking for seconds.
I drag myself out of the blankets, feeling the ache in my thighs and the strange, pulsing warmth of the bond in my chest. It's a fragile thing, this choice to stay. It feels like a temporary ceasefire rather than a permanent peace treaty. I find my shirt on the floor, sheer, black, and looking entirely too dramatic for a Tuesday morning, and pull it on before heading toward the common area.
Cain is on the couch in the library, a book resting on his knee. He looks like a museum exhibit of a very dangerous man trying to pass as a graduate student. He's wearing a V-neck thatshows off the lean muscle of his chest, and his dark curls are a mess that probably costs a fortune to maintain. He's positioned just close enough to the hallway that I have to pass him, but he doesn't look up as I approach. He gives me the choice to engage or ignore him.
His restraint still hurts. It's a reminder of that first night, of the way he manipulated the silence to pull me in, but seeing him now, after Ira's weight and Soren's manic honesty, it feels less like a trap and more like a man trying to remember how to be human. He's a predator holding his teeth behind his lips, and the effort is written in the tight line of his jaw.
"The coffee is an act of war," Cain says without looking up from his page. His voice is smooth, old, and currently laced with a dry amusement. "Soren is convinced that if he burns the beans enough, they'll surrender their secrets."
"I heard that!" Soren yells from the kitchen. "At least I don't drink lukewarm blood pouches and judge everyone from a velvet perch, you overgrown bat."
"It's mahogany," Cain murmurs, finally looking at me. His brown eyes are soft, searching. "Good morning, Aven."
"Morning," I say, leaning against the doorframe. I feel the denial loop starting in my head, reminding myself that this is just logistics, just a group of supernatural misfits sharing a lease, not a family. "I'm assuming the coffee isn't actually poisonous."
"Debatable," Cain says. He moves his hand on the couch, patting the cushion beside him. It's an invitation, not a command. "But it is hot."
I don't sit. Not yet. I follow the smell of charcoal and resentment into the kitchen, where Soren is standing over the espresso machine like he's performing an exorcism. His reddish-orange hair is standing up in several directions, and he's wearing a sweater that looks thin enough to be a second skin. He looks hollowed out, pale, green eyes wide and manic, but he hands mea mug with a flourish that suggests he's just handed me the Holy Grail.
"Drink," Soren says. "It's a sacred household offering. If you don't finish it, Vera's spirit will weep and the plants will eat your shoes."
I take a sip. It's terrible. It tastes like a tire fire extinguished with bitter tears, but it's hot, and Soren is watching me with a vulnerability that he's trying to hide behind a bratty smirk. He needs me to like it. He needs me to be part of the rhythm. I swallow the sludge and force a nod.
"It's... complex," I say, choosing the most academic word for disaster I can find. "Very artisanal."
Soren beams, a quick, sharp flash of light that makes my heart do a strange little stutter. "Exactly. Ira doesn't understand the nuance of a dark roast. He just wants things to be efficient."
Ira is at the stove, silently sliding eggs onto plates. He doesn't join the bickering. He just moves a knife out of Soren's reach when the witch gets too animated with his hands, a quiet act of protection that he doesn't even seem to notice he's doing. I'm given a plate, a blanket that Ira pulls from a nearby chair, and a place at the small kitchen table. No one looks at me like I'm a ticking spiritual time bomb. No one treats the fact that I'm talking to a Victorian ghost as a symptom of insanity.
That's the dangerous part. Not the fated bond talk, not the ancient vampire charm, but the fact that they've made a space for the broken parts of me and called it domesticity. I eat the eggs, which are perfectly seasoned, because of course they are, and feel the fragile reality of my old life slipping away. The Seminary, the Bar, the cold apartment where I drink myself into a stupor just to get the dead to shut up. It all feels like a movie I saw years ago and can barely remember the plot of.
"I need to make some calls," I say, the weight of the coffee mug suddenly feeling like a leaden anchor in my hand. "I can't just... vanish."
"The Seminary?" Ira asks, his eyes flicking to mine. He's already thinking about the security implications. He's already building the wall higher.
"And Gabriel," I say. "He'll think I'm dead in a ditch. Or worse, that I've finally joined a cult."
"Technically, we're a coven," Soren points out, licking jam off his thumb. "Cults have better branding and tax exemptions. We just have a biting plant and a lot of repressed trauma."
I walk back into the library, my phone feeling like a hot coal in my pocket. I sit on the edge of a chair, as far from Cain as I can get without being rude, and dial the Seminary's administrative office. My voice is dry and polite, the voice of the boy who wanted to be a priest because he thought God might be the only one who could give him a moment of peace.
"I'm calling to resign," I say, and the words feel like I'm cutting a tether I've been clinging to for five years. "Effective immediately. Personal reasons. Yes, I understand the protocol."
There's a pause on the other end. It's long, too long, and I can hear the click of keys being pressed. The person on the other end isn't just an administrator; they're a monitor. I can feel it in the way the air in the room seems to chill.
"Have you spoken to Ezra about this decision, Aven?" the woman asks. Her voice is level, bureaucratic, and entirely too interested. "Are you in a safe location?"
"I'm fine," I say, my grip tightening on the phone until my knuckles turn white. Lying remains my most transferable skill, a byproduct of years spent pretending the shadows weren't screaming at me. "I've spoken to who I need to speak to. I'll send the formal letter by mail."
"The Church is very concerned about your welfare," she continues, her tone sliding into that managerial concern Ezra always uses. "Perhaps you should come in for a meeting? Just to ensure you're making this choice with a clear mind."
"My mind is perfectly clear," I say, and I hang up before she can mention spiritual guidance, wellness checks, or any other phrase that means someone is coming to collect me. I file that pause away, the way she knew Ezra's name immediately, the way she checked for my safety as if I were a piece of equipment that had gone missing from the inventory.
I call Gabriel next. This one hurts. Gabriel is the only family I have left who isn't a ghost, and the sound of his gruff, worried voice makes the back of my throat tighten.
"Aven? Kid, where the hell are you?" Gabriel's voice is filtered through the background noise of the bar, the clinking of glasses, the low hum of the regulars. "I called your place. You weren't there. The energy here has been… stiff."
