Page 133 of What We Bury

“Great.” Milo doesn’t look up. “Thanks for that.”

“Yeah.” I nod at the counter. “Good work.”

Eli glances between us. He knows we were watching. Of course he does, but nobody says anything.

“I should go,” Eli says eventually.

“Sit,” I say.

He looks at me. I nod at one of the kitchen chairs.

“I’m not arguing with you, Eli. I’m tired. You’re tired. Sit down and let’s actually talk about what happened after the meeting this morning.”

Eli sits. Reluctantly. His jaw works.

“What about it?” he says.

“I don’t want to keep fighting with you.” I say it gently. No edge. Just naming it. “And I don’t want to keep repeating our same old patterns either.”

Eli glares at me—then at the table, then at nothing. “I’m not repeating anything. You two just . . . keep forcing it.”

He means the talking, the way we tug at every feeling he shoves in a jar and hides in his closet. I know the trick. It’s a classic. Shame is a more effective lock than anything that comes with a key. But tonight, I don’t want to lock him down. If I’m honest, I want to see if he’ll try to breathe.

I glance at Milo, who’s polishing a water glass with the intensity of a man tasked with shining the Hope Diamond. He glances at me and shrugs, as if to say,Ball’s in your court.So I take it.

“I know what we are, Eli,” I say quietly. “And what we aren’t. But the pretending’s getting old—acting like you don’t care when we all know you care too much.”

The silence is long.

Eli looks at the floor. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“What doesn’t?”

“Me. You. Her. Whether I care—how much. The fact is, I shouldn’t be here.” He stands, suddenly restless. The chairscrapes. “I came back to make sure you and Milo had the place secured. That’s all.”

“Eli.”

“It’showI care. Keeping people safe.”

“Bullshit, Eli.”

Milo, who’s held his peace beautifully for thirty whole seconds, can apparently hold it no longer. He sets the glass down carefully.

“Why are you always the last to take what you need, Eli?” His voice is low, but the joking is gone. “You act like the only way to do the right thing is to be miserable.” Milo cocks his head, eyes unblinking. “Nobody gets bonus points for suffering. It’s okay to want something. To want someone. You’re allowed.”

Eli’s jaw works. “What we’re doing is irresponsible. All of it. We’re supposed to be protecting her, not—” He gestures at the apartment, at the dishes, at the hallway where she’s sleeping. “Playing house. She went through something horrific, and instead of giving her space to process it, we’re taking turns showing up at her door with dinner and?—”

“And what?” I cut in. “Kindness? Connection? Showing her we’re the kind of people who actually understand her and give a shit?”

“We don’t know her well enough for this.”

“You didn’t know me,” I snap back. “When I made a mess of murdering my rapist. You didn’t know me. None of you did. But Holden handed me the card and you invited me in anyway. The Hangmen have been my family ever since—you’ve sat with me when I couldn’t talk. Driven me home when I was too fucked up to get behind the wheel. You didn’t know me, Eli, but you decided I was worth showing up for anyway.”

“That was different.”

Milo steps forward. “You didn’t know me, either. I was a stranger when I showed up during one of your kills. You hadevery reason not to trust me—could have killed me on the spot. But you let me in. You let all of us in.” He locks eyes with Eli. “So don’t stand there and tell us we don’t know her well enough. You knew us for about five minutes before you decided we were yours. She’s no different.”

“Sheisdifferent.”