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Flint rattled off the digits, and I committed them to memory without needing to write them down. A trick that came in handy when your hands were perpetually covered in espresso grounds.

“That’s it. Pretty short call.”

“Appreciate it, Flint.”

“No problem. It’s dead in here anyway. Two customers in the last hour, and one of them was Mr. Farrow doing his crossword. Unless you count the lady who came in with five dogs, unleashed, carrying enough potty bags to—” He gagged. “Honey, I’ve seen things these eyes can’t unsee. My therapist is getting a bonus this week.”

I chuckled. “Thanks for the message.”

Flint hung up while mumbling something about the café needing decontamination and fifty oil infusers.

Phineas had called the café for me. I grinned, knowing my mate missed me just as much as I missed my little croissant.

“Everything okay?” Blade glanced over from the doorframe, the screwdriver paused mid-pry.

“Yeah.” I set aside the sandpaper and stood, brushing dust from my knees. “Just need to make a quick call. I’ll be back.”

“Tell my brother-in-law I said hi.” Blade smirked.

I flipped him off before stepping through the back door onto a small concrete patio that overlooked a neglected yard. Weeds had colonized every inch of what might’ve once been a garden, and a listing wooden fence separated the property from the neighbor’s immaculate lawn. The contrast was almost comical.

Leaning against the porch railing, I dialed the number and pressed the phone to my ear. It rang twice. Three times.

I picked at a splinter of loose wood on the porch railing, rolling it between my thumb and forefinger.

“This is Phineas.” The voice was professional, clipped, a version of the man I barely recognized from the café. Then a pause, followed by something softer. “Hello?”

“Hey, Phineas with a P-H.” I kept my tone easy, speaking with a warmth you’d offer a skittish animal. “Got your message.”

A small intake of breath on the other end. “Drift. Hi. I—yes. I called the café, and someone—your, um, person. Not that I’m saying he’s your—who answered, he said you weren’t in.”

“That’s Flint. He’s my backup when I’m out playing handyman or cooking for a pack of wolves.” Not a chance Phineas would believe I was being literal. I pictured Phineas at a desk somewhere, surrounded by manila folders and a million Post-It notes stuck haphazardly against the walls, maybe sitting up a little straighter now that he knew who was on the line. The image settled into my mind with an ache I didn’t expect, the desire to see it for real, to have a photo of myself propped on my mate’s desk where Phineas could glance at me throughout his day.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I mean I just—I wanted to—” The faint sound of a chair creaking, someone shifting their weight. “I don’t know why I called, honestly. That’s embarrassing.”

“Not even a little.” I looked out at the street. A guy dribbled his basketball in his backyard next door, earbuds in, oblivious to the world. “Sometimes you just want to hear a friendly voice. Nothing wrong with that.”

Silence for a beat. Then, quieter, he said, “I’m at work. I shouldn’t be doing this.”

“What kind of work?”

“Insurance claims analyst.” The words came out flat, rehearsed, like Phineas had said them a thousand times and wrung all the life out of the syllables. “I review claims, process paperwork, stare at spreadsheets until my eyes cross. It’s thrilling stuff. Anyone’s dream job.”

“Sounds riveting.” I flicked the splinter off the railing and watched it fall. “Say I wanted to file one for emotional damage, would I have to go through you?”

When he spoke again, the professional veneer had cracked, and what came through was quiet and unguarded.

“Did someone hurt you?”

Not the response I expected to a throwaway joke. Not even close. The concern in Phineas’ voice was real, raw, stripped of the careful armor he’d been wearing since we met. Like the concept of someone being hurt wasn’t abstract for him. Like it lived in his body, a thing he recognized by feel.

“No,” I said and made sure my voice carried the full weight of the truth. “Nobody hurt me, Phineas. I promise. Just a bad joke.”

Another pause. Longer this time. I could hear the faint ambient noise of an office—phones ringing in the background, the muffled drone of conversation, the mechanical whir of a printer or copier.

“Okay.” His voice had gone small. “Good. That’s—I’m glad.”