Noah
Cyan didn't stop buttering his toast. He didn't flinch, didn't look guilty. "I wouldn't say something is going on."
I stared at the side of his face. "That's not a no."
Cyan just kept smiling, saying absolutely nothing.
"So what exactly are you planning to do to him?" I pressed, leaning a fraction closer. "You said you were going to handle it. What does that mean?"
Cyan set his knife down with a soft click against the ceramic plate. "I already told you… you'll see."
"That's not really an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
A silence stretched between us. The playful, theatrical edge in Cyan's posture seemed to drain away, replaced by a quiet, stillness that made him look completely different.
He leaned in just enough so his lips were near my ear. "Be patient, Noah," he murmured softly. "I'm going to make him understand himself."
A cold drip of dread slid right down my spine.
