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She doesn’t say it like a question. Just fact.

The letter’s thin, neat handwriting visible even through the heavy vellum. Luna’s hands tighten on it like it might dissolve if she holds it too hard, then she looks up at Alistair, jaw set.

“Can I write her back?” she asks, already pulling the door wider, already half turned toward the hallway like she’s ready to sprint upstairs.

Alistair nods once. “That’s why I’m here.”

Without another word, Luna’s gone, letter clutched to her chest, bare feet silent against the hardwood as she disappears up the stairs.

And just like that, I’m left standing with Alistair.

The door hangs open. The night pressing in cool and empty behind him.

He doesn’t move to come inside. Doesn’t move to leave, either.

It’s awkward. And I don’t do awkward. I survive on snark and bad decisions, not whatever the hell this charged silence is between us.

“So,” I say after a beat, crossing my arms. “Didn’t think you were the mailman type.”

Alistair’s lips twitch faintly, like he can’t decide whether to be amused or bored. “Consider it charity work.”

I snort, leaning heavier against the doorframe. “That’s new. Since when do you care enough to deliver letters?”

“Since she asked.”

He glances past me again, scanning the living room where the others are probably trying to listen in, and then looks back like he’s trying to decide if this conversation is worth the effort.

It’s not. It never is with him.

But I step back anyway, holding the door wider.

“Come in.”

Alistair arches one brow. “Not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Neither am I,” I admit. “But if we’re going to stand here like idiots, we might as well do it somewhere warm.”

He exhales slowly, like the weight of existence itself is a chore, then steps inside, brushing past me without so much as a sound.

The door clicks shut behind him.

Alistair stands there like the ghost of all my bad decisions, shoulders loose, expression flat. I hate how quiet he is. Always have. Like the world is already dead to him and he’s just lingering because he forgot how to leave.

We stand in the foyer like two assholes at a party neither of us want to be at.

I clear my throat because apparently, I hate myself today. “So…” I drag the word out, crossing my arms over my chest and rocking back on my heels. “How’s Layla?”

His gaze flickers to me, unimpressed. “She’s fine.”

Flat. Bored. Like the question barely grazes him. Like he doesn’t care about the answer—but I know that’s bullshit. You don’t deliver letters in the middle of the night if you don’t give a damn.

I narrow my eyes. “That’s it? ‘Fine’? You walked halfway across the fucking continent to drop off a letter, and all you’ve got is fine?”

He exhales like the effort of speaking is too much. “She’s alive.”

“Wow.” I make a show of clapping slowly. “You should write poetry.”

Alistair shoots me a look that could peel paint off the walls. But then something cracks—something small, something reluctant—and he shifts, looking down at the floor like the answer might be hiding there.