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“Yes,” I agree, nodding as I step into his offered embrace, hugging him back.

He gives me a gentle, fleeting kiss, then picks up his satchel and heads out.

“Did you think any more about speaking to someone?” Bry asks hesitantly from the other side of the kitchen island, and I pull my attention away from my e-book reader.

It’s been a welcomed distraction this past week, and I’ve found myself bingeing more books than I have in years. Each one has given me a reprieve from my thoughts, allowing me to disappear from this world and into another.

It doesn’t work every time. For the times it does, I fall into the distraction.

The one I’m currently immersed in has a sentient library, magic-wielding arcanists, a ghostly librarian, and all the emotional slow burn I could want.

“A little,” I admit, fighting the pull to rejoin the fictional characters and avoid this conversation.

“But?” he presses. His words are directed at me, but his focus remains on cutting up the mouth-watering brownies and adding the slices into each selection box laid out around us.

I fidget a moment. “I don’t know if I want to talk about it with someone. Especially with someone I don’t know.”

“So you’d feel comfortable talking to someone you do know?” Another slice gets carefully placed in the box. The smell of cinnamon and caramelised pecans mixed with the chocolate is making me want to reach out and grab one. Bry bakes almost every day, and it takes a lot of restraint to not spend my days eating everything.

“Maybe? I used to go to someone a few years ago after Nanna passed. But I don’t know if she deals with this sort of…thing.”

I don’t know why I can’t say trauma. Logically, I know that’s what it is. I went through something traumatic. I was a victim. Yet the words won’t come out when I try to say them. It’s easier to dismiss and downplay it so other people won’t treat me differently.

Even if they still are.

“Would you reach out to her and ask?”

“Why are you pushing this? Did I…do something wrong?” I ask, a little hurt that suddenly it seems I can’t cope. Or perhaps I’m too much for them to cope with.

His knife clatters onto the worktop, then his head snaps up with wide eyes as he skirts around the island. “What? No, Rosy. That wasn’t what I was implying. We’re all here if you want to talk to us, and we want to be that for you. Sometimes it seems as though you’re drowning. Every nightmare you have chips away at you more. If someone outside of us could help you, then I want that for you. If you’re comfortable with it,” he rushes to explain, his hands reaching to cup my face.

He pauses, hands lifted, realising that they are covered in chocolate. I slip off the stool and press myself into him, our bodies slotting effortlessly together as I hug him.

“Sorry, I know you’re right. But I need to be thinking about finding another job, not paying a therapist with money I don’t have. Maybe once I’ve got money coming in, then I can think about one further down the line. I’ve put off searching longer than I should’ve already,” I mumble against his chest.

My mind is already flitting from one thought to the next as I start listing all the options, the places I need to start searching, some of the recruitment agencies I can reach out to. Except I still don’t have my phone and laptop back from the investigation. I could ask the guys if I can borrow one of theirs to start the process, at least.

“No,” Bry disagrees, gripping my shoulders and holding me at arm’s length. I’m briefly aware of the chocolate smudges he leaves across my jumper before the front door opens.

The sound still has me flinching.

“What’s going on?” Nate asks as he enters, glancing between my rigid body and Bry’s hands on me.

“Rosy thinks she needs to go out and get a job already,” Bry tattles on me.

I grimace but hold firm because it’s true. I can’t function or survive without money to pay for things. Technically, I still live next door—for now, at least. And I still have bills to pay.

“Why?” Nate questions, no longer glaring at Bry but at me instead.

“To earn money so I can live?” I say slowly.

What do they think a job is for? Do they have a magical money tree I don’t know about, and work just for funsies?

“You live here.” Nate shrugs.

“I’m staying here, but I live next door, and I have bills and rent to pay…” I trail off, wondering why they aren’t getting it.

“For now. You should know, we found out about the eviction notice, little tease,” he says, and a single brow quirks up.