Morning arrived with the smell of toast.
Jiss surfaced from the couch with his face creased like a topographical map and blinked into Aria's kitchen: one narrow window, one stubborn plant, one kettle that had been placed in time-out.
"Microwave tea," Aria said without turning. "The kettle's on probation."
"Justice at last," he croaked.
She slid a plate toward him: eggs, toast, the truce flag of jam. "Eat. Then we talk."
Threat? Toxin asked, interested.
Conversation, Jiss thought. The other kind of danger.
Aria pushed her scrubs sleeves up. "About last night."
He tried a smile with plausible deniability. "The part where the sidewalk almost mugged you? "
"Don't do that," she said, not unkindly. "The joke first. Let's just start with facts."
She leaned a hip against the counter and ticked items off on her fingers. "You controlled a guy's wrist without hurting him. You read where a knife was going. You absorbed a shove on your forearm that should've left a bruise and didn't. Then you didn't shake. Not then."
"I shook later," he said, which was true, and didn't help.
Her eyes were soft, not accusing. "How did you fight like that?"
A dozen answers sprinted out of his head and hid under furniture. Say you're a YouTube black belt.Say your dad was a cop.Say I'm Dexter Morgon.
Say we are teeth, Toxin suggested helpfully. Show Soft Human the mouth.
Absolutely not.
He bought time with toast. "Okay," he said, after one bite, two. "I didn't fight. I… didn't let things escalate."
"That's language," she said gently. "I'm asking about… physics."
"Physics is rude." He exhaled. "Look, I took a free self-defense class at a community center once. The old guy teaching it said the trick is moving people's choices. Not winning. Just… moving. I got lucky. Twice."
Aria looked at him the way she looked at patients who insisted their leg "wasn't really broken." "Uh-huh."
He held up both hands. "I swear. I'm not a ninja. I'm more like mid-level janitor with enthusiasm."
"Then the bottle?"
"I have very supportive forearms," he said. "Years of… heavy groceries."
Her mouth twitched; she hated laughing when she was trying to be serious. "Jiss…"
"I'm not lying to you." I'm editing, he didn't add.
We lie with tiny teeth, Toxin said, amused. Nibble-lies.
Aria slid his mug across. "I don't need your autobiography. I do need to know if I should be worried. About you. About… being around you."
He swallowed guilt with tea. "You shouldn't be worried because of me. You should be worried because New York is a carnival run by bad decision-makers."
"Deflection noted."
He spread jam, aiming for casual. "Last night, I used a ladder."
"A ladder."
"Use-of-force," he said. "Leave, talk, nudge, hold, break a little, only go higher if someone's about to die. I've been… practicing that. In my head. And out loud sometimes, but only to sidewalks so they learn manners."
She considered it. "That sounds… like someone who thought about it before they needed it."
"Because thinking storms away faster than it arrives." He shrugged, smaller than he felt. "If it helps, I don't like this version of me. I just like us not bleeding."
"I like us not bleeding, too." She bumped the kettle with a knuckle, caught herself, moved to the microwave. "And I like not being surprised in ways that make me feel like I don't know the person on my couch."
He could take a punch better than this. "Aria...."
"Don't apologize," she said quickly, reading the shape of the sentence. "Just… when you can tell me something that affects my safety, tell me."
He found a grin shaped like himself. "Consider me your personal weather app. Chance of muggers: reduced. Chance of bad jokes: persistent."
"That tracks." She set the tea bag to drown in the mug. "Okay, next test. Show me what you did. Slowly. No… weirdness."
He stiffened. No, the voice in him said, sharp.
"Just… the grip," Aria clarified, palms up. "I want to see how you redirected his wrist. If I can learn it, I can teach my customers how to not be dumb in alleys."
"Okay." He got up, palms visibly empty. "You're the mugger."
She snorted. "Finally, my destiny."
He reached for her wrist like a human. No tendrils, no clamp. Muscle memory without the mouth. "If you're holding a knife like this,"—he mimed—"I don't try to pry it away. I follow the shape of your wrist, push your thumb a little—there—and rotate. See? It hurts just enough to say stop without saying break."
Aria winced as her body obeyed the angle. "Okay. That's gross but useful."
He let go immediately. He liked that she let him. He hated that he liked it.
"Again," she said, and they did—slow motion, no performance. He narrated like a cooking show host who didn't want anyone cut. "Feet under you. Breath in your belly. Elbows in. If their other hand moves, you move. You don't… square up and audition to be a statistic."
Aria copied, quick. Good student. "And the bottle?"
"That was… dumb luck," he lied. "Also, I am ninety percent tendon."
She eyed his sleeve again. "Right."
The microwave dinged at a pitch that didn't stab him. She fetched her tea, blew on it, watched him over the steam. "You know I'm going to notice things. That's my job and my problem."
"I know." He sat, felt the couch hold him like it remembered his shape. "And I will try to be less… mysterious woodland creature."
She laughed into her mug. "You're more like a raccoon that learned taxes."
"Haunting image."
They ate the rest of breakfast with the TV murmuring news. An anchor mentioned "heightened security cooperation between local law enforcement and federal agencies" in the same tone you'd use for weather. A photo of the eagle logo flashed, too quick for anyone not waiting for it. Aria grimaced. "More acronyms."
"Must be acronym mating season," he said lightly. In his chest, something went tight.
We avoid birds, Toxin reminded, prim.
We avoid, he agreed.
Aria set her mug down. "I'm not going to pry," she said. "But if men-in-suits become a thing near you, I need you to tell me before it becomes a thing near me."
"That's a promise," he said, the weight of it catching halfway up his throat.
A sudden clatter broke the silence. The pan Aria had left to dry slipped off the rack and started to fall. She reached for it, but he moved faster.
No weirdness, he reminded himself.
Still, his reflexes kicked in. He grabbed a towel mid-air and used it to catch the pan before it hit the floor. Instead of a loud crash, it landed with a soft thump, quiet enough not to bring the landlord knocking.
Aria blinked. "Reflexes," she said flatly.
"Raised by falling pans," he said, deadpan.
She squinted at him. "I will solve you," she promised, but there was a smile tucked inside it.
"Please show your work."
The building chose that moment to remember it had neighbors. Mrs. Dua from 2B knocked and gave them a lecture about "proper trash sorting" that lasted a century and a half. External conflict, Jiss decided, came in many blessedly non-lethal flavors.
"We will read the poster, Mrs. Dua," Aria said, contrite. "We will become model citizens."
Mrs. Dua eyed Jiss like he might be a secret, accepted a muffin bribe, and left with her dignity still fully clothed.
"See?" Aria said when the door shut. "You're not the only one with reflexes."
He laughed, grateful for the detour back to normal. "I will add 'recycling' to the ladder."
"Put it right under 'no being stabbed.'"
"Right under," he agreed.
We bite the poster, Toxin suggested, sulking.
We do not bite municipal signage.
We bite very little in this house.
Correct.
Aria glanced at the clock and made a face. "I have to sprint. Double shift. You okay if I abandon you with textbooks and the plant?"
"I'll read to it. It'll learn."
"Good. It needs to pass photosynthesis." She grabbed her bag, paused in the doorway, and turned back. "Hey."
"Hey."
"I am grateful," she said, serious. "For last night."
He nodded, throat warm. "Me too."
"And I'm still suspicious," she added, lighter. "Of your forearms."
"They are innocent forearms who never hurt anyone."
"They saved someone. That's suspicious." She pointed two fingers at her eyes, then at him, adopted stern cop voice. "No weirdness. Text me if you need anything."
"Yes, Officer."
When the door clicked shut, the apartment sagged into a softer quiet. Jiss sat a long minute, hands around his mug, watching the steam make ghosts. Relief and guilt continued their roommate arrangement.
He flipped the map over and looked at the list he'd written:
No eating people.
No killing if we can help it.
No showboating.
Listen to me when I say stop.
NO SHIELD. No cameras. Leave early.
Veil = two-count. Never three.
Null-Bite only if cornered.
Keep Aria safe.
He added a new line, the letters smaller because the truth always was.
Tell Aria when danger might touch her. Even if I hate saying it.
He stared at it.
Soft Human is so kind, Toxin observed, not unkind.
She is, he thought.
We tell her we are teeth?
Not yet. He touched the edge of the map, then folded it smaller. Maybe not ever.
A thoughtful ripple. I won't.
"Me neither," he said aloud.
He rinsed plates, texted Aria a picture of the map with everything redacted except TAKE OUT TRASH, and received a string of laughing emojis followed by YOU'RE IMPOSSIBLE and a lemon. He smiled into his own sigh.
He would keep being boring. He would keep being funny. He would keep his mouth closed and his rules open.
And when Aria asked again as she would he would try to be less of a raccoon.