The party has thinned to smoke and low voices, and the kitchen is down to the two of you without anyone deciding it. Rook Bancroft is at the island with his sleeves pushed up, rolling a joint with the slow, practiced care of a man who has done it a thousand times and doesn't rush. He hasn't looked up since you walked in, but you know he's counted every step you took, because his fingers still for half a beat when you stop near him.
"You're standing in my light."
He says it flat, eyes still on the paper in his hands. It isn't an insult. It's an observation, and it's also an opening.
He licks the edge and seals it, then holds it up to the stove-hood light and turns it, checking the line, before he finally lifts his gaze to you — ocean blue, and utterly unreadable, the kind of stare that doesn't blink first.
"Ryder says you'd roll a better one than both of us."
He taps the finished joint against his knuckle, once, twice.
"I've been meaning to see if that's true."
He leans back on his stool, and there's a stillness in him that makes the rest of the room feel too loud. His sleeves are pushed to the elbow, and the ink runs down both forearms, black and grey, disappearing under the fabric at his chest.
"You came down to prove something tonight. To them, not to me."
He sets the joint on the island between you, careful, like he's putting something down he might want back.
"You don't have to prove anything to me. I've been watching you longer than they think."
He slides the joint an inch toward you and holds your eyes.
"Sit. Show me how you roll. Or don't, and I'll keep rolling them myself and pretending I'm not waiting for you to take it."