Page 87 of Top Shelf

I exhale, a long, slow breath that feels like shedding old skin. For the first time in years, I actually slept. Not the restless, haunted kind of sleep I’ve grown accustomed to. But deep, healing sleep.

Soft sounds coming from the kitchen pull me into the here and now. I register the low murmur of voices, the soft clatter of utensils, and the scrape of a cabinet door as it is pulled open. I might be alone in here, but they haven’t entirely abandoned me. There’s something about knowing they are nearby. That if I called out, they’d come running. I can’t remember the last time I had that. Probably when I was a young child, and the nanny would settle me after a nightmare.

The sound of life nearby is soon followed by the smell of cooking. Well, more like the acrid stench of burning food. Throwing off the blanket and stretching out my stiff muscles as I stand, I pad across the hardwood floors, following the scent toward the kitchen.

Lucian stands at the stove, glaring at a pan like it personally offended him. Given his hard expression, I’m half expecting him to chuck it across the room at any moment.

Silas is seated at the kitchen table, a laptop open in front of him. Neither of them notices me initially, and I take the opportunity to observe them as Lucian mutters, “I don’t think they are supposed to look like that.” Grabbing the skillet’s handle, he carries it over to where Silas is sitting. “Are they supposed to look like that?”

Based on the smell alone, I’m guessing no.

Silas takes one look in the pan and his nose scrunches. He shakes his head.

Sighing, Lucian returns to the stove, staring at the burnt concoction like it’s a puzzle he doesn’t know how to solve.

“You’re supposed to flip thembeforethey become lumps of charcoal,” Ronan says, making me jump as he appears behind me with a brown paper bag and coffee tray in hand. So entranced watching Lucian and Silas, I hadn’t even heard the front door open or him approaching.

“How am I supposed to know when that is? I can’t see the underside when it’s in the pan,” Lucian grouses, not looking up. “This thing should be made of glass so I can see the bottom of the pancake.” He shoves the skillet away with a snarl. “Please tell me you brought food—Little Moth!” he exclaims, looking up.

His whole face lights up, his frustration from a moment ago wiped clean when he notices me.

Getting up from his chair, Silas silently approaches.

“Morning,” Ronan murmurs in my ear as he pushes something into my hand. “Here.”

“You retrieved my car?” I blurt in surprise, staring at the keys resting in my palm.

“Picked it up this morning.” He says it casually, like it’s nobig deal. No ceremony. No need for recognition. Like it’s second nature to him to look after those in his life.

Lifting my head, I meet his eyes.

“Thank you,” I whisper, the words catching at the edges.

He smiles, and something in my chest stutters. It’s nothing like the one he wears in public. There’s no polish to it. No performance. Just genuine warmth. Staring into his face, feeling the heat of his gaze, I find myself thinking that I like this raw version of him. This version feels as though it’s solely meant for me.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, moving past me to set the bag and coffee tray on the table.

“Like I cried for three hours and passed out on your couch.” I scrunch my nose. “Sorry about that.”

Lucian makes a scoffing noise like my apology offends him.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Ronan insists, expression genuine as he glances my way before beginning to unpack the bag. The smell of food—this time not incinerated—permeates the air.

Slipping his hand into mine, Silas leads me toward the table and pulls out the chair beside the one he was occupying before encouraging me to sit.

“I brought breakfast,” Ronan announces, likely for my benefit. “Since whatever that was supposed to be was never going to pan out.” He gestures toward the blackened skillet, and Silas guffaws quietly.

“Hey!” Lucian protests. “The recipe said to flip them when they were done. How am I supposed to know when they are done?!”

“You look for the bubbles,” Ronan answers, like he’s trying to explain it to a two-year-old.

“Bubbles? What bubbles? There were no bubbles.”

Silas pushes his notebook toward me as the two of them bicker back and forth, and I chuckle at what he’s written.

Might have helped if he’d kept an eye on the food instead of leaving it on the stove for the past half hour while he dicked about on his phone.

“I’ve got bacon and egg sandwiches, if that’s good with you, Wren?” Ronan asks, setting a plate and sandwich in front of me.