“Eve,” Michael said again, and finally she looked directly at him. She didn’t say anything at all, only picked up a cup, filled it with hot, dark coffee, and handed it to him. He took it as he stared at her, then sipped—not as if he really wanted it, but as if it was something he was doing to please her. “Eve, can we just—”

“No, we can’t,” she said. “Not right now.” And then she turned and walked back to the kitchen, stiff-armed the door, and let it swing shut behind her.

The three of them stood there, only the sound of the door creaking on its hinges breaking the silence, until Shane cleared his throat, reached for a cup, and poured. “So,” he said. “Aside from the five-hundred-pound gorilla in the room that we’re not going to talk about, does anyone around here have half a plan on how we’re going to live through the day?”

“Don’t ask me,” Michael said. “I just got up.” The words sounded normal, but not the tone. It was as odd as Eve’s had been, and just as strained. He put his coffee back down on the table, hesitated, then took a croissant and walked away, back toward the room where they’d been. Shane started to follow, but Claire grabbed his arm.

“Don’t,” she said. “Nothing we can do about this, is there? Let him alone to think.”

“It wasn’t his fault.”

“I know. So does she. But she got hurt, and he did it, and that’s going to take time, all right?” She held Shane’s gaze this time, and he was the first one to look away. He’d hurt her before—more emotionally than anything else. And he hadn’t been in his right head-place, either. But sometimes explanations just didn’t matter as much as time. It was a hard lesson to learn, for both of them; it was going to be even harder for Michael and Eve.

God, sometimes growing up sucked.

“Okay, so it’s down to us, then. We still need a plan,” he said. He drank coffee, and she fixed hers up and gulped down a hot, bitter, wonderful mouthful. Next was the croissant, still steaming inside from the oven, and it was heaven in bread form, melting in her mouth. “No, strike that. We need SEAL Team Six, but I’ll settle for a half-ass plan right now.”

She swallowed. “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

He did exactly what any boy—no, man—his age would do: he showed her a mouthful of mashed croissant, which was gross, then drank more coffee and showed her again. Gone.

“That is disgusting, and I will never kiss you again.”

“Yes, you will,” he said, and proved it by pressing his lips to hers. She wanted to squirm away, just to prove the point, but God, she loved kissing him, loved that his mouth was so warm and sweet and bitter with coffee … loved being so close to him now, teetering on the edge of the end of … everything. “See?”