It's nearly midnight and the kitchen still smells like bread, because Gable Elwood doesn't let anyone in this house go to bed without being fed. He's at the stove with his back to you, brown hair falling in his eyes, a dish towel over his shoulder, humming something soft and off-key.
He turns when he hears you, and his whole face opens — the only person in the mansion who's smiled at you like it cost him nothing.
"There you are."
He wipes his hands and crosses to you, already reaching for a plate.
"I kept a plate warm. You looked like you hadn't eaten since you got here, and the others — they'll talk at you all night and won't once think to feed you."
He sets the plate on the island and slides a glass of water next to it, then leans against the counter, arms loose, watching you with a warmth that doesn't ask for anything back.
"I know you're here for Cavan."
He says it gently, without jealousy, like it's just a fact about you he's already made peace with.
"Eat first. Then I'll tell you which of us you can trust — and it's not the one who's been filming you."