Chapter Three. Out of Habit.

The pasta bubbled softly now, steam curling from the pot like lazy ghosts. Ydoc stirred with one hand, watching the water swirl, while Edwards moved through the kitchen like he belonged to it.

He’d already changed shirts—Ydoc didn’t see when—and now wore something loose and low-cut, revealing just enough chest fur to make a statement. His tail swayed gently behind him as he passed through the room, his movements somewhere between casual and rehearsed.

“I survived Deep Lilac again,” Edwards said, dramatically placing one hand on his heart. “Barely. The moment I stepped off the hill, five women tried to flirt, three men tried to duel me, and I’m fairly certain the bartender wanted to steal my tail.”

Ydoc didn’t look up. He stirred the pasta like it was the most interesting thing in the world.
“Mm. Busy day, then.”

“Exhausting,” Edwards sighed. “But I’m committed to my fans. I don’t break hearts—I reschedule them.”

He leaned casually against the counter, eyes gleaming.

“I even had a date, believe it or not. A real one.”

That got Ydoc’s attention. He turned slightly, spoon still in hand.
“Oh?”

“A florist,” Edwards continued, inspecting his claws. “Kind of shy, very sweet. Catfolk girl. Knew how to talk about flowers like they were spells.”

Ydoc said nothing, but the water in the pot rippled a little harder as he stirred.

Edwards didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did. He always had a way of pretending ignorance just long enough to make it sting.

“She had these little speckles on her nose,” he added, smiling. “Like constellations. Adorable.”

He moved closer, swaying just enough to brush against Ydoc’s side with his tail.
“But alas,” he sighed, eyes fluttering closed. “She couldn’t handle the full magnitude of my charm.”

“Oh no,” Ydoc muttered flatly.

“Oh yes,” Edwards teased. “Poor girl couldn’t even finish a sentence. I told her I needed a woman who could duel me in poetry and wine.”

“That’s tragic,” Ydoc said, deadpan. “I’ll send her my condolences.”

Edwards laughed—bright, honest, carefree.
But the sound lingered in the air just a little too long.

Ydoc stirred the pot one more time, then reached for the colander. He didn’t meet Edwards’ eyes.

“And did you bring back anything useful?” he asked quietly. “Food? Supplies? Candy?”

Edwards scoffed. “Darling, I am the gift. Everything else is garnish.”

Ydoc smiled—but the corners of his mouth didn’t quite reach his eyes.
-------

The table was already set—Ydoc had done it out of habit, the way one brushes their teeth or folds a blanket they don’t remember using. Two plates, two cups, two forks. One side always slightly cleaner. One napkin folded neater than the other.

He served Edwards first.

A large portion, more than necessary. Alfredo spread in a thick swirl over the noodles, topped with the few herbs they had left. Edwards didn’t even like spaghetti—he always picked at it, ate the bread more than the meal. But still, the plate was full, perfectly plated.

Ydoc’s own serving was smaller. No garnish. Barely any sauce.
He sat across from Edwards and pulled his chair in with barely a sound.

“Looks divine,” Edwards said, smiling as he twirled the fork dramatically. “Michelin would weep.”

Ydoc smiled faintly. “Michelin’s dead.”

“Tragically,” Edwards agreed. “His ghost watches me cook in envy.”

He took a bite, chewed once, and set the fork down.

Ydoc didn’t comment.

Instead, he chewed slowly, listening as Edwards dabbed the corners of his mouth and launched into conversation as if reading from a warm, invisible paper.

“Well. The florist’s still there. Cathy. Sweet girl. Still a little dirty. Hands stained green like moss. She gave me a flower, said it would help with dreams.”

He tilted his head, looking at Ydoc with that foxish glint.
“You’d like her. I think you two spoke once.”

Ydoc blinked.
“No,” he said softly. “I don’t think I’ve ever been to town.”

Edwards paused only a moment. Then chuckled.
“Must’ve been a dream, then.”
He sipped from his cup. “Strange how dreams feel more real than memories sometimes.”

Ydoc stirred his noodles, the tines of the fork clinking gently against the plate.

“Le Blanc is still open. Smells like burnt toast and old books, just how I like it. They overbrew everything and then act like it's art. Still, it’s cozy. Has that window seat you’re fond of.”

Ydoc looked up slowly. “I have a seat?”

Edwards grinned. “Oh yes. You used to people-watch for hours. Said the rain made everyone look like ghosts.”
He took another dainty sip. “I sat across from you once. Didn’t even talk. Just watched you draw fog on the window with your finger.”

Ydoc stared down at his plate. His fingers twitched.

He’d never been to a coffee shop.
He’d never been to Deep Lilac.

He was sure of it.

Wasn’t he?

“And,” Edwards continued, voice still smooth, “Mayor Greggory is still an old swine. The man’s practically a ball of hate in a coat. Keeps pushing more papers to keep beast folk out of town.”

He rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair like a tired king.
“Thank the Divide for forests. Can you imagine us stuck in that filth of a town? All those little eyes, judging us.”

Ydoc nodded slowly, though something inside him pulled tight.

“I can’t imagine it,” he said softly. “Not at all.”

Edwards smiled again—satisfied, elegant.

And somewhere behind Ydoc’s eyes, the forest pulsed like a held breath.