Page 377 of Immune

Choice.

Always choice.

Maine’s voice comes through the door a second later, rough and careful. “Kota? It’s me. I’ve got breakfast.”

I lift my head like a puppy who just heard the word treat. Xeon looks down at me, waiting. No one answers for me, and I like that a lot. It kind of makes me want to bite something. Probably affectionately, I don’t know. All of this is very new to me and I don’t even know how to act anymore.

“One sec,” I call back.

“Take two,” Maine answers through the door. “I’m not coming in until you give the go-ahead.”

My throat tightens at that because the last time Maine and I were safe in a room together, we were kids. Before death learned our address and came knocking. Before Dad left for work one day and didn’t come home only days before the virus spread across nations. Before Maine left. Before Mom died. Before I learned every locked door has two sides, and sometimes love is on the wrong one.

Now he waits outside one. Waiting for me to choose.

Damn him.

Personal growth is actually disgusting.

I push myself upright, clutching the blanket to my chest. Not sure why. Everyone in here has already caught several eyefuls. Ewan finds my shirt and passes it over without comment. That’s suspicious enough that I narrow my eyes at him.

“What?” he asks.

“Out of jokes already?”

“I have depth, I’ll have you know.”

“You have pond water at best,” I argue, catching the glint of amusement in his eyes that matches the same feeling that rattles our bond.

“Welsh pond water,” he counters. “Very scenic. Bring your camera.”

I snort and pull the shirt on. It smells like smoke and clove, which means it is his. My own clothes are somewhere in the room, but apparently ownership has become an incredibly loose concept when everyone’s scent is already having a team meeting on my skin.

Once I am dressed enough to ensure my brother’s will to live, Fletcher opens the door.

Maine stands in the hall with a tray of toast, water, and a small jar of jam. For one weighted second, neither of us speaks. His eyes flick over my face, my throat, and the fresh bite at my neck. He looks away from the last part quickly, jaw tight, but he doesn’t turn into a raging ass about it.

Gold star for brother. A slightly traumatized and wildly awkward gold star, but still.

“Toast,” he says.

I stare at the tray. “Oh my god. Is that jam?”

“Stole it,” he confirms with an impressed nod.

“My hero.”

Then his mouth wobbles.

I shake my head sharply before I point at him. “Don’t cry on the jam. You’ll ruin it.”

He lets out a broken little laugh and steps inside only when I nod my approval. The room feels different with him in it. Not bad, just crowded with history.

He sets the tray on the crate beside the bed. His gaze catches on the hat resting on the pillow.

“Still got it,” he says quietly.

“It’s a weird little relic now,” I explain. “It watches over me.”