Ruby flips him off with a grin. “Please. I don’t spit. I swallow.”
The room goes quiet for half a beat before Darla groans and tosses a pillow at her head. Ruby just laughs, catching it one-handed, already poised for the reaction. But there’s a flicker of something warm in her eyes as she glances Nash’s way. He catches it, doesn’t acknowledge it, but his mouth twitches, a faint response to something he might’ve felt too.
East plops down in the armchair with all the grace of a sack of potatoes and reaches for a cookie someone left on the table. “We lived, we plotted, we probably ruined some lives. Can I get a gold star or what?”
Kyle raises a brow. “You ate four of the planning snacks and made zero useful contributions.”
East takes a bite of the cookie and shrugs. “Morale is important.”
“I mean… he’s not wrong,” Frankie chimes in, twirling her pen.
I know what they’re doing. All of them. Cracking jokes. Tossing jabs. Making light of the pressure building in our chests. They’re not just trying to entertain—they’re trying to keep us from splintering apart. And I love them for it. Their laughter is armor, even if it’s bruised and a little bent out of shape. It holds us together when nothing else can.
Ruby suddenly claps her hands and sits bolt upright. “Game night!”
Darla squints at her. “Ruby, the sun is literally still out.”
“So? Joy knows no curfew.”
A chorus of groans and muffled laughter answers her.
“No. Absolutely not,” Nash says flatly.
“We’re doing it,” Ruby insists. “Pictionary. Charades. I don’t care. We need joy. I demand joy.”
Knox sighs, the sound weary with the heaviness of too many lost battles. “Someone hide the markers before she tries to reenact Die Hard again.”
“That was ONE TIME,” Ruby shouts. “And my Bruce Willis impression was flawless.”
“It ended with you somersaulting into a coffee table,” Sloane deadpans.
“Which was committed acting, thank you.”
Malachi slides in beside me on the couch, his arm draping around my shoulders. His lips brush the side of my temple. “You okay?” he murmurs.
I nod slowly, still smiling as Ruby starts drawing on a napkin and shouting, “Is it a sword? A rocket? A confused snake?!”
My breath hitches. The brush of his mouth against my temple lingers, heat left behind from a brand. His body radiates warmth where it touches mine. I feel the weight of him beside me, not crushing, not smothering. Just solid. Steady. Real.
I shift slightly, pressing into him, letting my side mold to his without hesitation. His arm tightens just enough around me tosay he feels it too, and he welcomes it. Whatever hesitation was left between us, it slips away in the silence, replaced by something quieter, deeper. A choice.
“Please tell me that’s not a phallic mushroom,” Frankie says, peering over Ruby’s shoulder.
Ruby gasps. “You saw a mushroom? This is clearly a fire hydrant in distress.”
East leans forward, squinting. “If that’s a fire hydrant, I’m a ballerina.”
Darla throws her hands up. “Okay, girls versus guys. Pictionary. First to ten points wins. Losers clean the bathrooms.”
Groans erupt around the room, but no one actually says no.
“Candace,” Ruby calls. “You’re with me. We need your trauma-fueled accuracy.”
I blink. “What?”
“Girl, you draw like someone who’s seen some shit. We need that.”
I laugh, despite myself, and take the marker. “Fine. But I’m not doing anatomy.”
