Page 25 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

Blake

I get to the café ten minutes early. Because I’m either polite, desperate, or trying to emotionally speedrun a relationship crisis before the pastries run out. The line between those is thinner than the croissant crust I’m stress-peeling apart.

The server hands me a pastry I don’t remember ordering. I thank her like I just won a raffle and sit at the far corner table, back to the wall, full view of the door. You know. Just in case I need to make a quick exit. Or throw myself dramatically through the window.

I tear a corner off the croissant and stare at it like it’s gonna tell me whether I’m boyfriend material or just a snack with abandonment issues. It does not. It’s just flaky and full of butter and anxiety.

Jennifer loves this place. Said the espresso here could resurrect a corpse if it had a croissant to chase it with. Then she licked sugar off her thumb and I blacked out for ten seconds. Not relevant. Except it is.

Why did I agree to meet the cop and the mortician who are both auditioning to redecorate my girlfriend’s insides like horny interior designers with trauma?

Edgar probably already did. Last night. In a graveyard. Wearing gloves. Possibly reciting a eulogy. Definitely making it art.

He’s got that whole death daddy thing going. Refined. Broody. Smells like cedar and sin. I’d fuck him, too, if I was into that, and wasn’t busy panic-hating him.

I shift in my seat and take a bite. It tastes like panic. Or maybe that’s just the cinnamon. Could be both.

This feels like an ambush. Or a polyamorous exorcism. Or a gentle yet coordinated dick-down where I’m the weak link in the gangbang. Am I dying? Is this how I die? Emotional shanking over espresso and sexual jealousy? I’m not even mad.

Jennifer didn’t tell me to come. Carson did. He texted me like it was a casual thing: “Meet us at the café on 8th. 1pm. Bring your thoughts.”

What the hell does that mean? What thoughts? Which ones? I only have like three about this whole thing, and one of them is just “I love Jennifer.”

I nibble more pastry. It’s getting deconstructed like a crime scene. Flaky crumbs all over my jeans. Jennifer would probably mock me for it. Or lick them off. God.

I press the heel of my palm to my forehead. Does she love us all? Is she using us as body disposal units with benefits? Am I just the dumb one she lets carry things and climb ladders?

Do I care?

Well, yeah. I do.

But also… I like them. Kinda. Maybe. I don’t even know them, really, but Edgar has cheekbones like a villain in a cologne commercial, and Carson’s voice could probably convince me to commit tax fraud. Not in a gay way. Or maybe in a little bit of a gay way.

Shit. I’m spiraling.

I glance at the door.

Carson’s probably going to show up first. Punctual. Intense. Probably already knows everything about me. Probably knows how many times I’ve Googled “can you date a girl who may or may not be murdering people.”

And Edgar? He’ll show up in something dark and dramatic. He probably has opinions about tea. And silk waistcoats. And sex in graveyards.

I stare down at my pastry corpse.

God help me, I want them to like me.

The bell above the café door jingles, and I nearly choke on pastry shrapnel. Because of course he walks in like he owns the place. Like he owns me.

Officer Carson Fucking Smolderpants.

He’s in plain clothes, which somehow makes him more intimidating.

Dark jeans, leather jacket, gray t-shirt that clings like it was personally tailored by the gods of chest definition.

He’s carrying two coffees and a manila folder that looks like it contains at least one crime scene and maybe my internet search history.

I sit up straighter and wipe pastry crumbs off my lap like I’m not already emotionally naked and halfway to crying into my milk.

“Blake.” He says my name like it’s a case file. Cool. Professional. Deep enough to make my knees consider folding inward.

“Carson,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m sweating through my spine. I fail.

He slides into the seat across from me like we’re already in an interrogation. Puts one of the coffees in front of me. Black. No sugar. I take it like I’m being tested and sip before realizing this is probably how people die in spy movies.

He opens the folder but doesn’t look down at it. His eyes are on me. Piercing. Calculating.

I’m panicking. I smile anyway.

“We need to talk about Jennifer,” he says.

Of course he does. That’s the line. The noir movie line. Cue the dramatic music and internal collapse.

My mouth opens, but my brain stalls. “Is this about, are you investigating her? Is she, are we, am I?”

He raises one hand, calm and steady. “I’m not here to arrest anyone.”

Oh. Okay. I let out a shaky breath and try to sit like a person who isn’t about to cry or pass out or confess to crimes he hasn’t even mentioned.

“I want to help her,” he says, voice serious. “We all do.”

I blink so hard I probably look like I’m trying to Morse code for help. “Wait, so… you’re not here to fight me for her?”

He leans back, one brow arched and takes a slow sip of his own coffee. “Do I look like I’m threatened by a man who brought chocolate milk to a date?”

I open my mouth to argue, but all I have is a whimper and the sudden memory of Jennifer sipping it like it was fine wine and I was the treat. “That was one time. It was flavored nostalgia.”

Carson’s mouth twitches. Just the barest hint of a smile, but it hits like a full-blown hug from a grizzly bear. Is that affection? Was that a joke?

“What are we doing here, then?” I ask, less panicked. “Is this some kind of… support group for emotionally compromised himbos with a murder kink?”

Carson snorts. “Close.”

The bell jingles again. And I swear to god, time slows.

He walks in like a villainous love letter, sealed in blood and spritzed with pheromones no human man should legally emit.

Edgar Templeton is dressed like he’s either mourning a wife he poisoned or officiating a wedding where the theme is funeral chic. Charcoal slacks, midnight-black shirt, matching vest. A fucking pocket square. His coat billows behind him like it has unresolved trauma and a graduate degree in drama.

And his scent, I catch it before he even speaks. Leather, smoke, something sweet and unplaceable. Expensive ruin. Forbidden pastries. A cologne that whispers, “You won’t survive me, but you’ll say thank you.”

I stare the way a cat does before it knocks over a glass, considering, judging, impressed.

Carson watches with a single raised brow as Edgar strolls up to the counter and delivers his order.

“I’ll have an espresso. Double shot. Extra hot.

With a dash of cardamom and one sugar cube, not stirred.

If the beans are from Ethiopia. If not, I’ll take the French roast, but only if it was ground within the last ten minutes. ”

The poor barista just nods like she’s been hexed.

Then he turns to us, spots the pastry in front of me, and hums low in his throat. “A lemon croissant?” he says, silk and sin. “Excellent choice, Blake. Bold. Messy. Subtly cruel.”

He doesn’t break eye contact. Just sits beside me like this isn’t my personal panic apocalypse.

I gawk at him like a baked good just proposed. What the hell is “subtly cruel?” Why do I want him to say it again but about me?

I would let him cremate me for free.

He sips the water they give him before the coffee. Dabs his lips with a napkin. And then, because the universe knows I haven’t suffered enough, he looks between me and Carson with a slow, knowing smile.

“So…” he says smoothly. “Are we comparing notes or making plans?”

For a while, nobody talks.

Carson stares into his black coffee like it holds the secrets of the universe.

Edgar casually dismantles his croissant like he’s performing post-mortem on a pastry.

And I just sit there, trying not to blurt out so are we all in love with her or just soft in the head?

Because it’s obvious now. Too obvious. We’re not here by accident. We’re here because of her.

“I didn’t know she was seeing both of you,” I say.

Carson lifts a brow. “She’s not. Not exactly.”

Edgar sips his coffee, graceful bastard. “I wouldn’t call it ‘seeing.’ I’d call it… gravitating. Towards what fits.”

Okay, well now I’m the pastry because I am fully crumbling.

Carson finally puts his mug down and fixes me with a stare that should come with a Miranda warning. “She doesn’t belong to us,” he says simply. “But she deserves men who won’t break her more.”

That knocks the wind out of me a little. Because yeah. He’s right. “I’m not trying to… compete,” I say. “I mean. I’m not a cop or a fancy death wizard. I changed her porch light and now I have dreams where we bake muffins and make out on top of the dryer.”

Edgar’s smile curls, sly and not unkind. “That’s more romantic than anything I’ve done. I helped her cremate a sex pest.”

I reconsider my entire love résumé. “I brought her chocolate milk.”

Edgar nods, solemn. “Valid.”

Carson actually snorts. The tension snaps like overworked elastic, and suddenly it’s not hostile anymore. It’s… weirdly warm. “We’re all here for her. Not enemies. Agreed?”

I nod, dazed. Then, because I have a habit of saying the quiet part out loud, I offer, “So we’re all her… team?” There it is. I said it. Out loud. Like I’m pitching the world’s weirdest sitcom. “Three Dudes and a Murder Girlfriend.”

Edgar doesn’t miss a beat. “Reverse harem is the clinical term, I believe.”

I choke on air. Carson just looks exhausted.

There’s a pause, just long enough for me to wonder if I hallucinated the whole conversation, before Edgar casually sets his coffee down. “We need a list of the bake-off judges. And their allergies.”

Carson nods like that’s perfectly normal. “I’ll also pull the permit violations from Cookie’s bakery. Just in case.”

I have to reboot my entire social understanding in real-time. “So… we’re pivoting from emotional support to espionage now?”

“We can multitask,” Edgar says dryly. “It’s called balance.”

Carson leans forward, fingers steepled like this is a tactical briefing and not brunch. “Cookie’s bakery doesn’t meet code on refrigeration. The health department might find that interesting.”

I came here to cry into carbs and now I’m part of a covert operation run by a homicide detective and a man who smells like poetic damnation.

“Cookie also tampered with Miss Gentry’s pie last year,” I add helpfully. “I don’t have evidence, but she smirked. Like, one of those TV villain smirks. Very smug. Very sabotage.”

Edgar hums thoughtfully. “Would poisoning be off the table? Hypothetically.”

“Hypothetically,” Carson says, “yes.”

I hold up a hand. “I learned how to make buttercream roses. For morale. And because Jennifer said my piping technique was ‘better than expected,’ which I’m pretty sure was a compliment.”

They both blink at me.

“What?” I shrug. “We all bring something to the table. You bring corruption. Edgar brings death. I bring frosted flowers and a wholesome can-do attitude.”

“You’re the emotional center of this triangle,” Edgar says, almost fond.

Carson grunts. “More like the buffer so we don’t kill each other.”

I grin, because this gooey sex casserole is actually baking, and I might be the topping. Somehow, against all logic and social norms, we’ve formed an alliance. A very sexy, deeply dysfunctional support group for one lethal, brilliant woman and her upcoming dessert duel from hell.

“She deserves to win,” I say.

“She deserves peace,” Carson adds.

“She deserves to bury Cookie in fondant,” Edgar concludes, raising his cup.

We all clink our drinks, coffee, coffee, chocolate milk. It’s ridiculous. It’s perfect. And we’re in.

We’ve moved past sabotage logistics and straight into “How Do We Emotionally Support a Murder Goddess 101” when I say it. I don’t mean to say it. It just kind of… slips out. Like a rogue frosting bag exploding in my hands.

“I just want her to be happy,” I say, fiddling with my straw. “Even if that means… like… all of us?”

Carson stills mid-sip. Edgar looks up over his espresso like I just offered to be embalmed recreationally.

Panic seizes my spine. “I mean, not like that, unless it is like that, in which case I’m not saying no, I just…”

Carson cuts in, cool and unbothered. “I want my own time with her. But after? I’m open.”

I momentarily forget how conversation works and just mouth-breathe at him. “Open to what, exactly?” I finally manage.

Edgar shrugs, unbothered and espresso-deep, like this is a wine tasting and not the beginning of our group descent into romantic madness. “As long as someone remembers to bring lube and no one dies, I see no issues.”

I wheeze. “You guys are so calm about this?!”

Edgar turns those cheekbones on me. “Would you prefer panic?”

“Honestly? A little would be comforting,” I say.

Carson glances toward Edgar. “Just don’t hog her. I know you’re into theatrics.”

Edgar sighs, pure drama. “Then hurry up and kiss her already. Some of us are waiting for the group round.”

Everything from the waist up tries to stay cool. Everything below it says ‘fuck that.’

There are no laws in this brunch. No gods. Just cheekbones, caffeine, and an increasingly sexual team-building exercise so healthy it makes my nipples feel weird.

And somewhere deep in my chest, something unclenches. Like maybe this isn’t the worst kind of crazy to belong to.

We’ve finally settled into a weirdly comforting rhythm, part murder support group, part logistical polycule summit, when Carson checks his watch and leans forward like he’s about to ruin dessert. “She’s meeting Walter tonight.”

The name hits like a crack in glass.

I squint, like that’ll make him make more sense. “Who the hell is Walter?”

Edgar goes very still. His cup lowers, precise and deliberate. “Yes,” he says softly. “I’d like to know that as well.”

Carson’s gaze flicks between us like he’s been carrying this too long. “Her ex-husband,” he says. “The one who started it all.”

Silence floods the table again, but this time, it’s different. Less awkward, more… like a storm just blinked into the horizon.

“She doesn’t need backup,” Carson adds. “But I’m going. We should be there. At least me and Edgar. Just in case.”

My pulse kicks. “Just in case what?”

No one answers. Not really.

Carson’s already rising. Edgar follows, coat sliding over his shoulders like the closing of a curtain. Neither rushes. It’s more like the gravity just changed.

I sit there, pastry forgotten, heart in my throat, trying to process the fact that tonight, the woman I love might commit the most personal murder of her life.

And the two men who also love her are not stopping her.

They’re bearing witness.