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He looks at me. “What?”

“I’m helping.”

I reach past him for the wooden spoon, and he shifts just enough to let me in beside him.

Our arms brush, and I’m suddenly very aware of how close he’s standing.

Wyatt glances down at me, a smile tugging at his mouth.

What is he thinking right now? I’d really like to know.

Once the spaghetti is cooked and the sauce is heated through, we dig in.

We eat standing at the counter first, then migrate to the couch like it’s the natural next step, like we’ve done this before. Pickles wedges himself between us with the smug satisfaction of an animal who knows exactly what he’s doing.

"So Camden," Wyatt says, "said the hotel mattress was older than the franchise, right, and he's convinced there's a dip in it shaped like a body—"

"Like a body."

"Like a body, Quinn, he wouldn't let it go, made Theo switch rooms with him at one in the morning—"

I'm laughing before he even gets to the part where Theo's room turns out to have the exact same mattress, and he watches me laugh instead of finishing the story for a second too long.

"Your turn," he says. "What did you do these last few days?"

"I stayed in the whole time with Pickles so nothing exciting to report."

"You know there’s a pool, a gym, a place on the roof where they keep a garden in this building." He turns to me. "You really just stayed here the whole time?"

"I was responsible for Pickles," I say, which is technically true. "I couldn't leave him alone."

"You know he can be alone for a couple hours, right? He's not a newborn."

"He can be," I say, scratching behind Pickles' ears until his back leg starts going. "But he didn't have to be."

Wyatt goes quiet for a moment, then reaches for his water.

“So, what else did you get up to while I was gone? Besides evaluating my cooking equipment.”

“Not much. Talked to Nadia a few times. Watched some movies.”

“Sounds like a wild weekend.”

“Oh, absolutely. Pickles and I really know how to party.”

He laughs. “Should I be worried about what you two got up to?”

“Only if you're particularly attached to your socks.”

Pickles sighs into the couch cushion, one paw twitching as he chases something none of us can see, the picture of complete innocence.

It's quiet for a minute. The good kind, not the awkward kind. Then Wyatt asks, not looking at me, poking at his food instead, "So, staying here. Was it — I don't know. Weird? Lonely? I know I kind of just threw you into it."

It's the most careful I've heard him sound. No bit loaded behind it.

"It was fine," I say, automatic, the way I say things when I don't want to actually answer.

"Quinn. I'll make it up to you—"