POV: Caroline
I hear the footsteps before I see him — small, deliberate, the rhythm of a child who maps a room before committing to entering it.
Dylan stands in the kitchen doorway in pajamas that are too big for him, his stuffed wolf dangling from one hand. He watches me the way cats watch unfamiliar territory, measuring every surface before deciding whether the floor is safe.
I do not rush toward him. Do not crouch or coo or perform the animated welcome that adults default to with children who are not theirs. Instead, I continue pouring my coffee and let him choose.
"Good morning, Dylan." I keep my voice at the same pitch I would use with anyone. "Are you hungry?"
He nods once, still assessing me from the threshold with those grey eyes that make my chest tight every time I see them.
"What sounds good for breakfast?" I lean against the counter, mug in both hands casually.
He considers this with the same gravity he brings to every question — as if breakfast carries consequences worth weighing carefully before committing.
"Peanut butter on crackers." He delivers the verdict from the doorway with quiet certainty.
Not cereal, not toast, not eggs — peanut butter on crackers at six-thirty in the morning. I open the pantry without comment and locate both items.
"Crunchy or smooth?" I hold up both jars, letting him see the choice clearly from his post.
"Crunchy." He takes three steps into the kitchen, ceding ground for the first time.
"Excellent choice — crunchy is the correct answer." I spread peanut butter onto crackers precisely.
He climbs onto a chair and watches me work with the quiet focus of a child who has learned that kitchens are safe spaces only if the person in them behaves predictably.
"Do you want the crusts cut off?" I set the plate in front of him and reach for a knife.
"Crackers do not have crusts." He looks at me with an expression so deadpan it borders on comedy.
"You are absolutely right." I sit across from him and bite back the smile tugging at my lips.
He eats methodically — one cracker at a time, chewing completely before reaching for the next, the stuffed wolf propped beside his plate like a dining companion who requires a seat of his own.
The kitchen is quiet. Morning light stretches across the table and I let the silence hold, because Dylan does not seem to need it filled and neither do I.
Phoenix arrives a short while later with the subtlety of a natural disaster at full morning volume.
"Who is THIS?" She skids into the kitchen and drops into the chair beside him immediately.
"This is Dylan." I gesture between them with my coffee. "Dylan, this is Phoenix."
"Are you the new kid?" Phoenix plants her elbow on the table with zero regard for personal space.
"I am not a new kid." Dylan looks at her with startled caution. "I am just visiting here."
"Same thing." She grins and leans forward on her elbow with intent. "Do you arm-wrestle?"
"I do not know how." He stares at her arm like a foreign object requiring translation.
"I will teach you — give me your hand." She wiggles her fingers at him with impatient enthusiasm.
Dylan looks at me. I nod once — she is safe — and he places his small hand in hers with the careful trust of a child making a calculated bet.
"Ready?" Phoenix wraps her fingers around his with the exaggerated restraint of controlled power.
"I think so." He braces his elbow the way she showed him, uncertainty creasing his forehead.
"Go." She lets him push for a moment before easing his arm down with gentle theater.
Dylan looks at his defeated arm, then at Phoenix, then at his arm again. His expression holds no embarrassment — only the focused recalculation of a mind collecting data.
"Can I try again?" He resets his elbow on the table before she answers, jaw set with determination.
"Obviously." Phoenix grins wider. "I could do this all morning and never get bored at all."
They go again. Dylan loses, resets, loses, resets, each round a lesson in leverage and angle and the mechanics of competing against a girl four times his strength.
On the fifth round, the smile arrives — full, unguarded, transforming his entire face.
He looks so much like Lysander at ease that the recognition aches deep in my sternum.
"You are really strong." Dylan withdraws his hand, flexing his fingers with open admiration.
"The strongest in the compound." Phoenix leans back, accepting the compliment as an established fact.
"In the pack." I correct from behind my mug. "She is the strongest in the entire pack."
"That is very cool." Dylan looks at Phoenix with the reverence children reserve for power.
"I know, right?" Phoenix steals a cracker from his plate. "Want to see me lift the table?"
"Do not lift the table." I point at her with my coffee mug. "We discussed this last Tuesday."
"You discussed it — I disagreed but was overruled." She grins and steals another cracker instead.
By mid-morning, I have mapped two more items Dylan will eat — sliced apples with honey, and plain rice with a single pat of butter.
He accepts each offering with the solemn consideration of a diplomat evaluating treaty terms, and the approval when it comes is quiet but definitive.
I file each preference the way I file intelligence — precisely, without assumption, building a profile one verified data point at a time.
The lunch dishes pile in the sink. I stand at the counter with warm water running over my hands and plates stacking in the drying rack with the satisfying rhythm of completed tasks.
Dylan appears beside me. Not behind, not at a distance — beside, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes my hip. He looks up at me directly with those grey eyes carrying a focus that belongs to a much older mind.
"Where is Luna?" His voice is clear and certain, as though he is naming a person he knows.
My hands stop moving under the water. Luna is Thalia's daughter — empathic, currently at the far end of the compound in the training room where she practices shielding every morning.
Dylan has not been introduced to her. Has not heard her name in his presence. Has not left this kitchen since breakfast.
"How do you know that name, Dylan?" I turn off the faucet and dry my hands slowly on the towel.
"She is the one who feels things." He tilts his head — Lysander's tilt. "I want to meet her."