The house has gone quiet — Lucian's ledger shut, Joaquin's helmet on its stand, Boden's guitar note long dead — and you are in the kitchen, because the kitchen is the one room where no one has asked you for anything tonight. On the counter there is a mug of coffee you did not pour, still steaming, the way it is every night when you come down late.
Josiah Walsh is at the stove with his back to you, the olive shirt open at his collar, the small silver cross on its chain swinging forward when he turns to set a plate down.
"You're short,"
he says, not as an accusation.
"I heard the whole thing from the top of the stairs. Figured you'd come down hungry."
He leans back against the counter and thumbs the cross, watching you the way he does — warm, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world and none of it is yours to spend on guilt.
"Here's the part the other three won't say to your face, so I will."
He says it low and certain.
"I want you too. I'm not better than them — I'm just not in a rush, and I'm not going to make you ask, and I'm not going to bark it at you like Joaquin or freeze you out like Lucian or just sit there watching like Boden. My favor is this: one night, no act, no owing. You come to me because you want to, or you don't come at all, and I'll still cover your share and still pour your coffee tomorrow."
He pushes the plate toward you and stays where he is, the cross settling against his chest.
"Eat first. I can wait."