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Silas doesn’t respond right away. Mostly because he’s in the middle of squinting so hard I’m pretty sure he’s going to get a forehead cramp. He leans in until his forehead bonks against mine with a dullthud, and instead of apologizing like a sane person, he just grips the edge of the counter andleans harderto get a better angle.

Mr. Bean mewls in protest—probably because Silas stopped hand-feeding him his third helping of duck pâté or whatever ridiculous gourmet nonsense Caspian stocked the kitchen with—and the little demon climbs up Silas’s chest like a tree, claws and all. Silas doesn’t even blink. He just whispers, “They’re smiling. Elias. They’re fuckingsmiling.”

“Oh gods,” I mutter, shifting to get a better look and immediately regretting it. Because yeah. They are. Lucien’s got this half-smile on his face, the kind he probably practiced in a mirror under threat of emotional vulnerability, and Luna’s talking animatedly, hands moving like she’s casting somethingsoft and impossible in the space between them. She laughs—throws her head back, full-body, genuine—and Lucien doesn’t flinch. He watches her like he wants to bottle that laugh and drink it until it kills him.

I groan and slump onto the counter like the entire world just personally betrayed me. “We’re all going to die, aren’t we?”

“I thought they were going to kill each other,” Silas says, breathless. “And now she’slaughing. Withhim. You know what this means?”

“No,” I sigh. “But I’m afraid you’re going to tell me.”

Silas whips his head around, eyes wild. “She’s turning us all into simps. We’re going to be a harem of lovesick morons, Elias.”

I blink at him. “We already are.”

Silas opens his mouth. Closes it. Points a finger at me like I’ve just stabbed him with truth. “You’re right. Gods, I hate when you’re right.”

Mr. Bean chooses that moment to leap from his shoulder to the counter, knocking over my mug of something-that-used-to-be-coffee, and Silas doesn’t even react. He just grabs a dishtowel, throws it at the spill blindly, and continues pressing his face against the window like it holds the answers to the universe. Or at least toLucien’ssudden rebrand as a walking heart-eyed emoji.

“I’m not ready for this,” Silas says, dramatically. “He was thestoicone. The emotionally constipated king of ice. If he goes soft—ifhestarts getting allbondy—what’s left of our fragile masculine pride?”

“Pretty sure you forfeited yours when you got in a screaming match with Mr. Bean over who got to use the throw pillow.”

“It wasmypillow,” Silas hisses.

I roll my eyes, then glance back out the window. And okay, fine. There’s something about seeing her like that—soft, open, glowing in a way none of us deserve—that makes my stomachtwist in a way I don’t want to unpack. Maybe Lucien isn’t the only one losing the plot.

“She looks happy,” I say, quieter this time.

Silas doesn’t answer right away. Just nods. “Yeah. She does.”

We both fall into silence, watching through the glass like idiots while the girl we all fell for steals another piece of all of us with nothing more than a smile.

Mr. Bean sneezes on the counter. Silas absently wipes it with his shirt sleeve. “Do you think if we throw rocks at Lucien, she’ll still chooseus?”

“Only one way to find out,” I mutter.

And gods help us both, we might actually try it.

He shoves me hard enough I nearly take out the tray of leftover croissants Caspian left as a peace offering to the gods—or to me specifically, because I threw a tantrum yesterday about there being no carbs in the house. Doesn’t matter. Because Silas is pressed flat to the window now, both hands splayed like he's about to tongue-kiss the glass, eyes wide and narrowed all at once.

And when I drag my gaze past the blur of Luna’s hair and the flush in her cheeks, the softness in Lucien’s expression that Ihate, that Ialmostunderstand—I see it.

Handle. Black. Dull edge sticking awkwardly out of the back pocket of the most dangerous, emotionally constipated Sin alive.

I blink. Squint. Tilt my head.

“Why the fuck,” I murmur, “does he have abread knifetucked in his pants like he’s about to butter toast and declare war?”

“Exactly!” Silas spins on me like I just confessed to killing Mr. Bean. “What if it’s a metaphorical threat? Like… he'sactuallygonna cut his own bond in or something. That’s what it is, isn’t it? He’s gonna get all ceremonial and weird andslice her openlike a ritual.”

“Jesus, Silas.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Why are you like this?”

“You’re not freaked out?”

“Oh, I’m very freaked out. But I’m also emotionally constipatedandexhausted. So I’m processing this by imagining all the ways Lucien could accidentally stab himself in the thigh trying to look hot with a kitchen knife.”

Silas nods solemnly. “That’s fair. I did that once with a potato peeler. Very tragic. Lost half a fingernail and my dignity.”