“You didn’t have to!” Frankie shouts, slapping the counter.
Sloane leans forward, scandalized. “How distracted are we talking? Basic kiss distracted? Or—”
“She’s wearing his hoodie,” Darla deadpans, sipping her coffee.
I groan, bury my face in my arms. The fabric of the hoodie is too warm now. Too soft. It still smells of him. Cedar, smoke, something darker underneath I haven’t figured out yet, and I hate how comforting it feels.
“I hate all of you.”
“No, you don’t,” Ruby sing-songs. “You’re in looooove.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” Frankie cuts in. “And it’s gross. I love it.”
“I am not in love,” I say, sitting up straight and scowling. “I’m just… in trouble.”
Sloane snorts. “The good kind?”
I bite my lip. They all scream again.
Just past them, still watching, I see Malachi shift. Barely. A tilt of his head. There’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. And something else beneath it. Pride. Not cocky. Just quiet certainty.He knows exactly what they’re teasing me for. He knows he’s the reason I can’t stop smiling.
I hate how warm that makes me feel. How my stomach does this soft, traitorous flip like I’ve swallowed the first line of a song I didn’t mean to write.
“Okay, okay!” I hiss. “I got distracted, alright? I didn’t ask him if the guys were planning revenge because I was too busy—”
“Getting railed,” Ruby says casually.
“Ruby!”
“What? You were! I can see it on your face!”
I give up. Throw the bar towel at her. Laugh, despite myself. It bursts out before I can stop it. Real, sharp, and almost painful, like my ribs don’t know how to stretch for joy anymore.
Behind them, Malachi hasn’t moved. But his gaze burns hotter now, fixed on me, focusing in a way that makes the rest of the room fall away. Because I’m his now. Whether we say it or not.
And maybe… I don’t hate that at all. Maybe the hoodie feels safer than it should. Maybe the way he’s still watching, even with the girls erupting around me, says more than any touch ever could. It’s in the way he’s anchored to me already. Ready to burn things down if he has to.
A flicker of music shifts in the background. Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams” humming low from the speakers. My fingers twitch on instinct, drumming the bartop edge in a soft, familiar beat.
One-two, one-two-three. I stop myself before it becomes something more. Before the lyric I scribbled yesterday in the margin of a receipt rises to the surface. I don’t let it out. I never do. Not in front of anyone. Especially not him.
But it’s there. Always there.
Frankie eventually wanders off, mumbling something about needing to open her shop before the rush. Darla and East gravitate toward the pool table, and within seconds I hear her daring him to lose to a girl. Sloane joins them, dragging Knoxwith her, though the tension between them buzzes like static. Still, he follows.
Ruby slides behind the bar, snags a handful of pretzels before sidling up to Nash with a wicked grin. “Dare you to stand in front of the dartboard,” she says. To my absolute shock, Nash actually smiles. Just a little. But it’s there.
I wait. Count down the beats until the room is distracted enough. Then I slip away.
The hallway is dim. Quiet. Just far enough from the noise that every footstep sounds louder. I don’t knock. Just find him at the far end, leaning against the wall, knowing I’ll come looking.
“I knew you wouldn’t stay away,” Malachi says, voice low and smug.
I don’t answer. Just step into him, breath catching as his hands catch my hips and spin me against the wall.
“Quiet now, hellcat,” he whispers. “Unless you want them all to hear how needy you are.”
