Page 188 of What We Bury

“Morning, wildcat.” Holden makes a straight line for Sage. He cups her face, tilts her head up, and kisses her. Slow. Thorough. The kind of good-morning kiss that’s also a statement, a claim, and a little bit of a territorial flag-planting in front of the room. When he pulls back, Sage blinks up at him like she forgot what planet she’s on. “Missed you in bed this morning.”

Sage mumbles something into Holden’s chest and wraps both arms around his middle, holding him in a death grip. He kisses the top of her head and pets her hair, and for a second the world is soft-focus and very, very small. Just us. Just this kitchen and the smell of bacon and the stripe of sunlight catching the dust in the air.

“Coffee, kitten?” I ask, handing Holden his coffee as they break apart.

“She can have mine.” He takes a mouthful, then hands it to Sage, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. “I’ve gotta go. Expected at the station—Davis’s parents are still making noise, and I need to keep the paperwork pointed away from us.”

“What? No,” Sage groans, cradling the coffee with both hands.

“I know. I’d rather stay too.” He leans down and kisses Sage again, quicker this time, hand on the back of her neck. “But I’ll call you. Promise.”

She nods, still half-asleep, dopey smile in place.

He heads for the door. I lean over the counter.

“What about my goodbye kiss?”

Holden stops. Turns. Gives me a look that could kill a lesser man. I am not a lesser man. I am unkillable. I am cockroach energy in human form.

“Just a little one? On the forehead? I’ll close my eyes and everything?—”

The door shuts behind him.

“He wants to kiss me,” I tell Sage as she grins into her coffee mug. “He’s just not ready. I respect his journey.”

From the doorframe, Knox makes a sound. It might be a laugh. It might be gas. With Knox, you never know. But I’m counting it.

I plate up breakfast—scrambled eggs, bacon, toast. Nothing fancy, but I put love in it, and love is the secret ingredient in everything I make. That and garlic salt. I set a plate in front of Sage. “For you, my queen,” I kiss her lightly on the mouth and she hums happily. “I had a really great time last night.”

She grins. “Me too.”

I give her another kiss on the temple then grab another plate and slide it to Knox. Then I eat mine standing up, leaning next to the stove, because that’s the cook’s throne and I will die on it.

Sage takes a bite of egg and makes a sound that—okay. Okay. That sound. That exact sound. I heard that sound last night and it meant something very different, and now my brain is short-circuiting. I stare at the ceiling. Hardware inventory. Aisle seven. Bulk screws. Moving on.

“This is amazing,” she says, mouth full.

“I know. I’m incredible. It’s my cross to bear.”

Knox eats in silence, which from him is basically a Michelin star. I watch the two of them—Sage waking up bite by bite, Knox angled toward her like his body can’t help pointing in her direction—and something big and warm and painfully earnest swells in my chest.

This is good. This is really good.

“Okay, can I just say something? And I know I always say things and most of them are nonsense, but this one is real.” I set my plate down. “I know this situation is objectively insane. One girl, five guys, murder as a hobby—not exactly a Hallmark pitch. But this—” I wave at the kitchen, at Sage in Holden’s shirt, at Knox’s nearly empty plate. “This feels right. We feelright. Someone should say that out loud before we all pretend we didn’t notice.”

Sage looks at me with soft eyes. “Milo . . .”

“I’m not crying. There’s bacon grease in my eye. Moving on.” I pour more coffee. “So! Weekend plans. I vote we do something fun. All of us. Beach? Hike? I saw a Groupon for axe throwing? Too on-the-nose?”

Knox shakes his head as he brings his plate to the kitchen. “Can’t stay. Recon.”

“Recon?” I take it from him and set it in the sink. “But it’s Saturday. Even murderers get weekends, Knox. It’s in the Geneva Convention.”

“It’s not.”

“It should be. I’m writing a letter.”

Knox crosses to Sage. Something passes between them—one of those silent Knox conversations that happens entirely in micro-expressions and eyebrow angles. He touches her jaw with two fingers, barely a graze.