For him to shake his head, fold his arms, and put on that moral high-ground act he does so well.
It’d be classic Grant, ever the voice of reason. The one who always knows where the line is and won’t cross it no matter how far the rest of us try to tug him over it.
But then, just when I’m sure he’s about to defuse the moment, he surprises the hell out of me.
He leans forward, forearms braced on his knees, the firelight cutting across his face throwing a partial shadow over his eyes, but the gleam that catches them is unmistakable.
“Noelle… Truth or dare,” he asks.
Her eyes widen because she didn’t expecthimto be the one asking. Hell, none of us did.
“You’re really going to ask me that?” she says softly.
He nods once. “That’s the game we’re playing, isn’t it?”
What surprises me most is that none of us step in to tell Grant to cool it.
Normally, that’d be Cal’s cue to roll his eyes and call it before we got in too deep, fucked ourselves over, and made a mess of an already dicey situation.
Or mine to crack a joke and deflect, lighten the mood like I always did because that was always easier than facing the truth head-on.
But strangely neither of us do.
Not this time.
Whatever’s happening right now feels…inevitable.
There’s something in the air that keeps all of us frozen in place, waiting. Grant’s tone wasn’t teasing and Noelle isn’t laughing it off either.
Her fingers are twitching where they’re clasped together in her lap, her throat working as she swallows around the lump that’s seemed to form there.
Noelle leans back slightly, crossing one leg over the other, her chin lifting a fraction. “Alright. Truth.”
Grant inclines his head slightly. “Who, out of the three of us, do you want the most?”
I can hear the blood rushing through my ears.
The right answer, thesafeanswer, would be for her to shrug this all off and call it a night.
To break us up and tell us to retire to our rooms and leave her the hell alone until Richard got back.
The wrong answer is any version that includes our names…and would be the one option I’m desperately hoping she picks.
What would happen if she finally stops pretending this is just a game?
How could we come back from this and act like everything is normal once Richard walked through that front door?
I tell myself I don’t care.
That I’m just curious and just watching the chaos play out like some fascinated outsider, detached and entertained.
I tell myself I’m nothing more than a spectator to the tension winding itself tighter between them, like it’s a movie
I’ve already seen a dozen times and I’m only here for the rewatch.
Except…that’s a lie.
Every heartbeat that stretches out the silence pulls at me. The space between us feels too still, too intimate. I can feel the pulse in my throat, a steady thud that betrays how not detached I really am.
