I join him over the stove and look down into the skillet. He’s even seasoned the eggs like he’s an old pro. Nudging him with my shoulder, I grin and say, “I’ll have to buy you an apron. Something kitschy like ‘Kiss the Cook,’ I think.”

“Great idea. Then I could cook for you while wearing the apron and nothing else.” He flashes me one of his patented Trystan smiles, but it doesn’t quite land right, and neither does the joke.

He must still be upset about what happened at the meeting last night. I assume he’s mainly bothered because it was his pack that so stoutly refused the idea...