No one wants to be the first to speak.
Finn pushes his hair back—anxious tic I’ve seen a hundred times. Aspen’s jaw flexes. Torric looks like he’s physically restraining himself from going after her.
Kieran’s posture is rigid, watching the door like he’s still deciding whether to follow.
And Darian—
Darian freezes in place, hands curled around a cup he isn’t drinking, shoulders tight, body angled away from the table like he’s trying to disappear.
Torric breaks first.
“She shouldn’t be walking that much,” he snaps—too sharp, too fast.
Fear, dressed up as anger, of course it is.
Aspen doesn’t look away from the door. “Her ribs aren’t stable,” he says quietly. “She needs rest, not guilt.”
Always calculating the risk.
Finn drags both hands through his hair, chaos magic flickering around his knuckles. “She’s upright. I’ll take the win.” He pauses. “But yeah… she’s not okay.”
His magic always gives him away before his voice does.
And Darian—
He folds in on himself. Shoulders curled. Eyes down. Hands white-knuckled around the cup he’s still not drinking.
The look of a man who expects to be cast out again.
Finn notices too. His gaze flicks to Darian, lingers for a moment, softens.
Aspen studies him with that quiet, analytical intensity he uses when he’s working through something.
Darian whispers, almost too quiet to hear.
“I shouldn’t be here.”
The table reacts instantly.
Torric’s growl is sharp. “NO.”
Finn’s head snaps up. “Oh for—no, dude.”
Aspen straightens, ice-blue eyes sharp.
Kieran freezes for half a second, then his expression closes. But he doesn’t disagree.
I lean back in my chair, shadows curling lazily around my feet.
“You’re hers too,” I say simply.
Silence.
Then chaos.
Torric slams his hand on the table. Heat rolls off him.
Finn’s eyebrows shoot up. “Well… he’s not wrong.”
