“Gracious of you, darling,” she snorted.

“That is my defining character trait, yes.”

“What if I’d killed somebody?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised, and I would visit you in prison if necessary.”

She gasped, all feigned outrage. “You wouldn’t offer to help me hide the body?”

Jacob’s lips quirked without permission. “You’ve been here quite a while, Sunshine, and there’s no police sniffing around. So I imagine you hid it just fine yourself.”

“Well. Yes. Quite right.” She preened at the idea of being a capable murderer, because she was a ridiculous ball of fluff. Jacob kissed her forehead because there was really no other option, not when she was being so obnoxiously cute.

“Now,” he said, “stop stalling. Tell me this story.”

She sighed. “My parents were angry with me.”

He waited for a moment before nudging. “Did you hit them with your car?”

“Spiritually speaking, I think I’ve hit my mother with my car many times.” Her tone was dry, but her fingers were tapping a rapid rhythm against his rib cage. “My mum wants so badly for me to be successful. At anything. And for a while, I gave up even trying. I think failure was one thing, but giving up, for her—that was a bridge too far. They were disappointed with me and I couldn’t bear it, so I . . . I left, determined to find something to do. You know, to prove myself. And so, here I am! Trying not to fuck up again.”

It wasn’t a totally unexpected explanation—and the way Eve spoke about herself was hardly unfamiliar. She said that sort of thing all the time—that she was a failure, a disappointment, that she was trying but had no faith in her ability to succeed. Jacob couldn’t pinpoint exactly when those words had started to set his teeth on edge, but the feeling got worse every time. And here? Now? It was the worst it had ever been, like scratching bone.

Apparently, he couldn’t bear to hear Eve Brown criticized. Not even by herself. “Thank you for telling me,” he said, because manners were useful things, and he’d read somewhere that it was good to start positive before telling someone off. “But Eve, I think it’s time we had a serious conversation—”

“Boo,” she interrupted. “You know I hate serious conversations.”

“No,” he said sharply, turning to look at her. “No, you don’t. Stop acting like you do. Even the brightest, lightest things still have substance.”

She was quiet for a moment, clearly surprised. “I—well—”

“And this is exactly what I wanted to talk about. Eve . . .” He wrapped an arm around her and squeezed, corralling his feelings into actual, useful words. Sometimes her presence made that kind of thing easy, but sometimes, when he was drowning in all the emotions he felt for her, it was incredibly hard. “Eve,” he repeated, “I know you think you need to improve yourself, or grow up, or whatever else. But there is nothing wrong with you. You’re just . . . a bit different, that’s all. You’re just sensitive enough for the world to seem too fast and too loud. And you’re—you’re hurt, I think. You’re used to flinching in case you get hurt again. I’m the same, for different reasons, but still. The fact is, you’re smart, you’re creative, you’re dedicated, and you care about people. You’d do anything for anyone, even if you were terrified, as long as it was right. And what matters more than that? Tell me one thing, honestly, that matters more than that.” Expressing this stuff felt a bit like digging for gold; Jacob labored for what felt like hours (but was actually thirty seconds), and in the end he was mildly exhausted and utterly elated because—