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Quinn counted off again. “And then you’ve got the regulars, the ones who treat the library like a community centre. Which it absolutely is, but it means that by 9:30 I’ve mediated at least one argument about whether crosswords count as literature.”

I studied him. “But you enjoy it.”

Another shrug, but it was obvious he was trying not to grin. “It’s organised chaos. There are systems, and most of the time it makes sense.”

“So what you’re really saying is, you thrive in structured chaos.”

Quinn beamed. “You nailed it.” He picked up his mug. “So here’s to caffeine, because by 10 a.m., someone will have asked me where the self-help section is while standing directly in front of it.” He peered at me. “What about your day? Do you compose better on several mugs of tea?”

He’d assumed my work was music-related. I wasn’t about to correct his assumptions. I picked up my mug and took a drink. I blinked. “You make a good cup of tea.”

Quinn laughed. “Mum says I make builders tea, stuff that’s strong enough to stand a spoon upright in it or melt it entirely.” He met my gaze. “You okay?”

“Yes,” I lied. I felt… unsettled, not by regret, but by how little I regretted any of it. Quinn knelt beside my bed, drinking tea, and I let him, conscious of doing something far more dangerous than breaking a rule.

I don’t really want to change a thing about last night.

I want to see what happens next.

I just wasn’t ready to admit that out loud.

Quinn

I finished my second mug of tea and stood. The flat smelled of toast, a comforting aroma. Then reality kicked in.

Shoes. Jacket. Phone. Keys. The train timetable already hovering in my head.

Max was still sitting on the couch, mug in hand, watching me in that quiet way he had when he was thinking three layers deeper than he let on.

I bent to pick up my gym bag. “I need to head home first. Can’t go to work dressed like this. Veronica would have a field day.”

“Text me when you get in.”

I glanced up.

Oh. That was… something.

“Okay.” I slung the strap over my shoulder and headed towards the door. Then I hesitated.

This is where you keep it casual.

This is where you don’t look like you’ve just had your world tilted off its axis by a man who made you sleep on the floor and somehow made that feel significant.

“See you,” I said.

“Quinn.”

I paused.

Max set his mug down. “Would you like to come to Obsidian this week? Another scene?”

And there it was. Structure. Recalibration.

“Yes,” I said automatically. Of course I would. “What kind?”

His gaze sharpened slightly. “I have an idea.”

I recognised that tone. It was dangerous.