"Fifty says he makes Viktor spit chiclets before dinner’s over," Connor responds.
I turn my head slowly, fixing him with an unblinking stare. "Remind me again why you're here?"
Connor straightens, shoulders squaring as his eyes lock onto mine with the same intensity he brings to the ice. "Moral support."
"Speak for yourself. I'm just here for the food." Jackson grins like the asshole he is.
Shaking my head, I continue up the stone path toward the mahogany front doors. After unlocking them, we all step inside. The foyer is warm and bright, the softmurmur of conversation and clink of silverware drifting from the formal dining room.
Jackson inhales deeply. "Damn, something smells amazing. Guess we’re having Italian for dinner."
Merci hesitates beside me, and I take his hand in mine, squeezing gently. Eli explained this is how to show emotional support. Physical gestures are easier for me to navigate than emotional ones.
They're concrete, measurable.
"If I have to stand in this doorway one more second listening to Jackson's stomach growl, I'm going to lose my shit," Merci says, though his knuckles are white where he grips my hand.
Together, we walk down the hallway, our friends following behind us. The dining room feels smaller than usual despite its vaulted ceilings and late afternoon sun streaming through the expansive windows.
"Merci." My stepmother rises from her chair, arms outstretched to greet her son. "How are you feeling, sweetheart?"
"I'm good, Mom." He releases my hand and accepts her hug. "Just some lingering soreness."
She pulls back to examine his face, where the bruising on his cheek has faded to yellowish green. She turns to me with a warm smile. "Thank you for taking such good care of him."
Viktor snickers behind us. "Oh, he's definitely beenveryattentive."
Connor elbows him, but he's grinning too.
My father stands and walks over, his expression softening slightly as he clasps my shoulder. "Good to see you, son." His gaze shifts between Merci and me. "It's nice seeing you two finally getting along."
I force a short nod, my molars grinding together. It's the most I can manage when he acts like he cares. When he pretends the distance between us doesn't exist.
"Please, everyone, sit." He gestures to the table. "Viktor. Connor. Jackson. Good to see you boys again."
"Thanks for having us," Connor says as we all take our seats.
When Merci and I sit beside each other, my father's brows raise before he looks at my stepmother. She offers him a soft smile before picking up the serving spoon for the lasagna, neither commenting.
"It smells amazing," Jackson says as my stepmother fills his plate.
"Thank you." She beams at him. “Actually, my husband has been taking some online cooking classes and made the pasta himself.”
My fingers tighten around my water glass. We've always had live-in chefs, even after my father married Evelyn, since his cooking expertise never extended beyond thegrill. The idea of him in a kitchen, learning to make pasta from scratch, is . . . unexpected.
"Stephen's become quite the chef," my stepmother adds as she passes a plate of lasagna to Connor. "Though I did help with the sauce."
"Homemade pasta for dinner?" Viktor glances between Merci and me as he picks up his glass of wine. “Must be a special occasion.”
I kick him hard under the table. Fucking asshole better keep his mouth shut and not ruin this before we’re ready.
"We’re just glad to have everyone here. It's been too long since we've had a proper family dinner." My father motions toward the food with an open palm. "Please, dig in."
The conversation flows around us. Jackson praises the garlic bread, Connor discusses his latest business class with my father, and Viktor tries to be the overall center of attention.
But I can't focus on anything except Merci. His fork keeps scraping against his plate, pushing food around instead of eating it. When his knee starts bouncing under the table, I rest my hand on his thigh, steadying him.
My stepmother's eyes keep darting between us, lingering on the way Merci leans into my space. Her expression shifts from curiosity to something softer. "Merci, sweetheart, could you please pass the rolls?"
