Page 17 of Shattered Salvation
He nods once, setting the kettle on the stove, and then just stares at it. I have to admire his attention. “Um, Skylar, you can sit. It’ll just be a few minutes. Is chamomile okay? I forgot to ask.”
“Rys, breathe. It’s fine. I’ll just be over at the couch, okay?”
Emrys manages a nod as I sit on the couch and open my laptop for a distraction. The moment the kettle starts whistling, Emrys jumps a little before rustling for tea bags and mugs. Then he brings the mug over and sits at the other end of the couch with his own tea close to his chest.
“You don’t have to pay attention to me or anything. I just... having you here...”
I glance over to see him curled up, shaking with his tea clutched in his hands. Something pulls at me to drag him into my lap but I keep my hands to myself, returning my attention to my laptop. A comfortable silence filters between us as his scent softens, mine winding around his until it’s just one, like it was supposed to be that way.
Pulling up the exterior footage notes with the call log, I draft a request for traffic cameras near West Talbot, and keep one eye on the hallway line in my peripheral vision. Emrys watches the rain-dark window more than the laptop. Every knock in thepipes pulls his attention to the door, but after ten minutes, his breathing starts to even out.
“Clarence has a dog named Biscuit,” he says suddenly.
I look over. “Clarence from the bakery?”
“Seventy-two, loud, thinks lemon loaves were bigger in 1998. Biscuit wears a bow tie and steals napkins when Clarence pretends he’s training him to be useful.” His voice warms a little, careful at first, like he’s testing how I’m going to respond. “Priya says the dog has more shame than Clarence, which is true, but not by much.”
“That sounds like an insult to Biscuit.”
“It is! Biscuit has done nothing to deserve Clarence slander.”
I keep my hands near the keyboard, but I’m not focused on the laptop anymore. He tells me about the bakery at five in the morning, how it smells more like yeast and wet flour than sugar, how Priya’s first coffee could strip paint, how opening shifts let him be hands and routine before anyone expects him to be fully human. He mentions Priya walking him the wrong way to the bus stop when she worries, adding blocks like he doesn’t notice she’s counting windows and parked cars. The more he talks, the more I realize he’s just trying to fill the silence.
“Priya sounds good at being worried,” I say.
“She’s awful at being subtle.” Emrys looks down into his mug, mouth moving like a smile almost made it. “I’m not much better.”
“You’ve had a bad couple of days. Subtlety can take a break.”
He glances at me, and the faint blush comes back. “You make things sound so... reasonable.”
“They usually are. They just don’t feel that way while they’re happening.”
He sits with that and drinks his tea. The quiet afterward settles easier than the one I walked into. I send Reyes the traffic camera request, mark one note for Miles, and keep the laptopangled enough that the glow doesn’t make the room feel like an interrogation. Emrys yawns once and tries to hide it behind his sleeve.
My eyes move to the dark hallway toward his bedroom, something off about the blankets haphazardly crossing the threshold. I’ve never been in this apartment before tonight, but even I can tell the space is missing its center.
“You can rest,” I say. “I’ll stay for a while.”
His gaze follows mine, and embarrassment moves over his face. “I took it apart.”
I raise an eyebrow, trying to follow what’s going on in his head. “Rys, you don’t have to explain.”
“I know.” He sets his mug on the coffee table and keeps his hands tucked in his sleeves. “It smelled wrong after. Not bad. Just wrong. I tried to sleep there, and it felt too open, like it wanted me to be fine. So I pulled it apart and slept in the closet.”
He says it like he expects me to look at him differently. I close the laptop halfway, enough to soften the light between us. “That sounds like you found somewhere safe.”
His eyes lift to mine.
“Small isn’t wrong,” I tell him. “If the closet worked and the nest didn’t, then the closet was the right place.”
His mouth presses tight, as his eyes glaze over with tears. “I thought it was pathetic.”
“Rys,” I whisper. “There’s nothing pathetic about surviving.”
He nods once, looking down before the expression can break all the way through. I open the laptop again because he needs somewhere else to put his eyes, and because I need the same thing. “There’s a little I can tell you about the case,” I say. “Only the parts that won’t put you in the middle of it.”
He curls deeper into the couch corner, exhausted but listening. “Any little bit helps.”
