Then a knock hits. A single, heavy sound that snapped the air in two. All of us freeze.
The room drops ten degrees. Popcorn stops midair. Breaths catch. That knock wasn’t friendly. That knock came wrapped in steel and purpose.
Frankie turns toward the door, wine glass still in hand. “That’s not a ‘girls’ night’ knock.”
Ruby’s smile falters. “That’s a Malachi knock.”
My stomach twists. The kind of twist that warns you something sacred is about to bleed.
Sloane stands slowly, shoulders straightening. “Something’s wrong.”
Before I can answer, the door creaks open. There he is. Malachi fills the doorway, a warning made flesh; shadow, heat, and tension wrapped in leather and silence.
His presence sucks the warmth from the room and replaces it with something heavier. Magnetic. I could smell the night on him—cigarettes, motor oil, wind. His jaw’s tight. His eyes? Wrecked. And he’s only looking at me.
He doesn’t look at Ruby. Or Frankie. Or Sloane, even as she moves closer, subtly placing herself between me and the door.
His eyes find mine. And hold.
My pulse jumps. A shiver works up my spine, a slow, deliberate chord plucked on an untuned guitar.
I stand without thinking. The room sways slightly from the wine, but I stay upright. “What?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at me, counting how many pieces I’ll fall into.
My fingers clench against the couch cushion. I hate that I need him to say something. Hate that his silence is louder than anyone else’s voice.
“What?” I ask again, sharper this time.
He takes a breath, rough on the way out. “I need to talk to you. Alone.” His voice is frayed at the edges. The truth has already broken him. Frankie glances at Ruby. Ruby glances at me. Sloane’s jaw flexes.
“Whatever it is,” I say, stepping forward, “say it here.”
“Not this.” Two words. That’s all it takes to shatter the fragile levity we’d built. My heart drops hard. Music cut off mid-chorus. The silence after is deafening.
Frankie rises with purpose. “We’ll give you space.”
Ruby looks ready to argue, but doesn’t. She just squeezes my arm once before grabbing the bottle.
Sloane lingers the longest. Her eyes stay on Malachi, cool and warning. “We’re right outside.” She doesn’t say it as a threat. She says it straight, a promise. I feel that promise settle between my ribs.
Then they’re gone, and the door clicks shut behind them. The silence isn’t peaceful. It presses. Thick. Suffocating. It smells like leather, sweat, and the coming storm. Malachi doesn’t move. He just stands there, hands loose at his sides, fighting the urge to clench them into fists.
My gaze drops to his hands. They’re shaking. Just slightly. Enough to make my throat tighten.
I step closer. “Is it my dad?”
His eyes twitch. Just enough. Every cell in my body braces.
“Is he dead?” I ask, bitterness rising in my throat. Some awful, hopeful thing.
“No,” he says. Rough. Final. That no splinters something I didn’t even know I still hoped for.
“Then what?”
He runs a hand through his hair, tension bleeding from every line in his body. “I just left him. He talked.”
His voice drops. Something heavy passes through his eyes, and I know—whatever this is, it’s worse.
