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Shane didn’t think he slept that first night so much as blacked out. He knew he shouldn’t be getting comfortable - that Laney’s mom or brother were bound to show up any minute and kick him to the curb - but he couldn’t help himself. It had been the best day he’d had in what felt like forever.

He was clean, and warm, and sleeping on an actual bed in a building with actual climate control. Waking up without the raw edge of hunger churning in his belly and making his head swim, he almost felt like a human being again. He literally couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up not tired.

It was still dark out, and Shane - having spent too long in precarious sleeping arrangements - had trained himself to be the first to rise. So he was surprised when he padded quietly down the hall in his thick athletic socks to the smell of coffee.

His palms began to sweat, and his stomach lurched. Must be her mom. He stood rooted to the spot in the hall, unsure whether to return to the bedroom and hide like a coward, make a break for it like an even bigger coward, or just announce himself and hope that he didn’t get shot for punching her fourteen-year-old daughter in the face and then promptly spending the night.

But before he could decide, Dustin’s head popped out of the entrance and into the hall.

Come .

Dustin thrust a cup of coffee into his hands, and then slid a recipe book across the counter at him. It was covered in flour and had pictures of bread on the open pages.

Shane's heart sank.

Dustin cocked his head and for a moment looked so much like Laney that Shane smiled despite his anxiety. Dustin was dark-haired and Laney was luminously blonde, but they both had the same pale, translucent skin, and quick, quirky mannerisms. While Dustin seemed scrawny, almost caved-in on himself despite the copious amounts of food Shane had watched him eat at dinner, Laney seemed solid despite her size. More tangible, somehow, although he couldn’t really tell for sure underneath those giant t-shirts. Probably for the best.

“For work,” Dustin said, patting the book.

Shane sipped the coffee, suppressing a groan of pleasure at the non-powdered milk, and eyed the book warily. Dustin frowned and nudged it towards him.

“Nah, man, I’ll just figure it out,” Shane said.

“Baking is science. Recipes are important.”

Shane swallowed, and looked at Dustin who was steadfastly avoiding eye contact but clearly paying attention. He shifted his weight uncomfortably and ran his hand over the back of his head before finally blowing out a breath.

“I don’t read too good, Dustin.” Something ugly settled in his gut, making his cheeks heat. He hated talking about this.

Dustin reached over to the book and closed it, before sliding off the barstool and squeezing around the tiny island where he started opening drawers, pulling out measuring cups, an old, beat-up cutting board, and a rolling pin.

“I’ll show you, then,” he said, before tipping his chin up and looking Shane right in the eye. “ It isn’t a big deal.”

Shane could have disintegrated right then, from the blast wave of gratitude that rolled over him like a freight train.