Page 92 of Pistols & Peonies

“So, Violet,” Whit says after a few bites. “What do you do?”

I open my mouth, then pause.

What do I do?

Fight underground, argue with authority, get paired against my will and exist in a constant state of defiance…

Technically, I’m unemployed, so I say, “Whatever I want, usually.”

Whit barks a laugh, delighted. “Good answer.”

Across from me, Kane’s mouth twitches. It’s almost a smile, but he hides it behind another forkful of food.

Conversation flows easily from there. Whit carries most of it, animated and quick-witted, bouncing between stories from their childhood and thinly veiled digs at Kane’s complete inability to have fun. The longer it goes on, the more I find myself relaxing and actually enjoying myself. Kane is different around his brother– looser, more accessible. He even lets a laugh slip once or twice, real and unforced. It’s nice.

It’s also deeply disorienting.

I’m used to the version of him that carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, all responsibility and restraint. Seeing him like this, human and unarmored, feels like stumbling into a room I wasn’t invited to.

I drain another glass of whiskey, and Whit refills it without asking. The lasagna disappears quickly. The house feels warmer now, and I’m pleasantly buzzed, my earlier anxiety dissolving into something almost domestic.

Whit pushes his plate away and leans back, studying me with a lazy sort of intensity. “It’s good to finally see Derek with someone who challenges him.”

I snort. “That’s one way to put it.”

“Seriously,” Whit continues, cutting a sly glance toward his brother. “You’re good for him. He needs someone who doesn’t take his shit.”

Kane grunts, but doesn’t disagree.

A comfortable silence settles over the table– the kind no one feels pressured to fill. For a second, it almost feels normal; like this is what family dinners are supposed to look like. Warm food, easy laughter, and subtle affection wrapped in insults. I let myself sit in that feeling for a second before reality creeps back in around the edges.

Whit checks his watch and pushes his chair back. “Better get back to the city,” he sighs, rising to his feet.

Kane stands as well. “You take your bike?”

“Nah, damn thing’s in the shop again,” Whit huffs. “I’m wasting the best riding days of the year dealing with engine trouble.”

“I told you to just get a new one,” Kane mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Some things are irreplaceable,” Whit replies lightly. His gaze shifts to me, smile softening. “It was good to meet you, Violet. We’ll have to do this again sometime.”

I stand too, beaming a smile at him. “For sure,” I say. It feels insufficient, but it’s all I’ve got.

Whit steps forward and pulls Kane into a quick, back-thumping hug, then heads for the door. We follow, and he pauses at the threshold, glancing back at us.

“Thanks for dinner,” he drawls. “The lasagna was perfectly crisp.”

I snort.

“Be careful out there,” Kane says, giving him a pointed look.

Whit flashes him a wolfish grin. “Aren’t I always?”

He flips up his hood and casts me one last look over his shoulder. Our eyes meet, and he dips his chin in a small, deliberate nod.

The familiarity hits me again, hard.

He walks out into the night, the door swinging shut behind him. Kane exhales as he reaches past me to slide the deadbolt into place.