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“This is a Tuesday,” I deadpan. “You should see Wednesdays.”

Silas shoots me a grin over his shoulder and points dramatically. “Hey! I heard that.”

The hoodie, like it knows he’s enjoying the show, delivers the coup de grâce: “I Googled what foreplay was last week because I panicked I wasn’t doing it right.”

Alistair coughs into his fist, shoulders shaking. I can’t even look at him without smirking.

Silas shrugs, completely unbothered, arms wide like he’s waiting for applause. “You’re welcome.”

The room settles for a breath, the magic still faintly sparking along the hem of his hoodie. Alistair glances toward the door, probably praying Luna comes back soon to rescue him from this ridiculous scene. But she doesn’t.

I shift off the wall, hands stuffed in my pockets, and tilt my head at Alistair. “You good?”

His mouth twitches like he wants to say no, but instead, he looks at Silas—who’s still grinning like an idiot—and mutters, “Yeah. I think I get why Layla likes it here.”

Silas’s grin stretches so wide, it looks like it might snap his damn face in half. He flicks his gaze back toward where Luna disappeared, all mock-casual like he hasn’t just detonated the most uncomfortable question in existence.

“Soooo,” Silas drawls, voice syrup-smooth and irritating as hell. “You sleeping with Layla yet?”

Alistair stiffens like someone shoved an iron rod down his spine. His eyes cut toward me—like I’m going to save him—but I lean back against the wall and raise a brow, folding my arms because if anyone deserves this hell, it’s him.

And then he blushes.

Alistair Dain—Apathy incarnate, the perpetual void who looks at the world like it owes him nothing—fucking blushes. A faint, traitorous pink crawling across the tops of his high, cold-blooded cheekbones.

“No,” Alistair mutters, voice brittle as if the word scrapes his throat on the way out. His eyes flick away like the floorboards are suddenly fascinating.

Silas’s grin grows teeth. He circles Alistair like a shark scenting blood, all loose limbs and chaotic energy that never knows when to quit. “No?” he parrots. “That’s tragic. But not unexpected. You got the personality of a funeral.”

I snort, biting back something mean because this is actually kind of glorious.

Alistair glares, a flicker of something dangerous sliding through his features, but then—like he’s choking on it—he leans forward and blurts, “How do I seduce her?”

Silas freezes.

I choke.

For a second, no one breathes. And then Silas recovers like the smug bastard he is, eyes lighting up like someone handed him a match and a room full of gasoline.

“Oh, you poor, sad thing,” Silas coos, clapping a hand on Alistair’s shoulder like they’re old friends instead of two disasters on opposite ends of the spectrum. “First mistake—you’re asking me.”

Alistair scowls but doesn’t pull away. Probably because he knows Silas is about to feed him bullshit, but he’s desperate enough to listen anyway.

Silas leans in conspiratorially. “Alright, here’s what you do. First—you gotta stare at her like you’ve never seen another human being before. Dead behind the eyes. Like she’s an alien who’s about to abduct you. Girls love that.”

I cover my mouth to keep from laughing, but it slips out anyway—a sharp, muffled noise.

“And then,” Silas continues, warming up like he’s delivering a sermon, “you have to neg her. Real hard. Tell her she looks like she hasn’t slept in weeks. Like her hair’s a disaster. Bonus points if you throw in something cryptic about how love is a social construct.”

Alistair’s brow furrows, genuinely considering it like he’s filing this away for later.

“And finally,” Silas says, tapping Alistair’s chest, “you show her you’re emotionally unavailable. Tell her you’re incapable of love.Maybe drop a casual line about how nothing matters and you wouldn’t even save a kitten from a tree.”

Alistair narrows his eyes. “That’s not seduction. That’s nihilism.”

Silas beams. “Exactly. Works every time.”

I can’t help it. I laugh, full and sharp, because watching my brother—apathetic, bored, and always two steps from oblivion—being fed this shit is better than anything I could’ve scripted.