I just chuckle, smoothing my hands down her hips and taking a step back to admire her.
“You keep touching me like that, Sera, we’re never making it to the damn club.”
She laughs then, shaking her head, a warmth in her eyes that wasn’t there a few days ago.
Music’s already thumping through the house by the time we hit the kitchen.
The smell of takeout hits first—soy, spice, garlic and grease. Heaven. The island’s a wreck. Cartons everywhere, chopsticks sticking out like weapons, sauce packets ripped open and leaking little trails across the marble.
Mac is now perched on the counter, grinning, while Sam and Chace are in the middle of some chili-oil showdown. Logan’s leaning back on his stool, watching the chaos with that lazy smirk of his, beer in hand.
I keep a hand on Sera’s back as we walk in, right where her dress dips into the curve of her spine. She stiffens for half a second—still not used to all this noise, all these eyes—but I trace slow circles with my thumb until I feel her relax.
That tiny reaction floors me every damn time.
“Sit, Dove,” I tell her, pulling out a stool and sliding it under her. “You’re about to experience the holy grail of hangover food.”
She sits, cheeks pink from the warmth in the room—or maybe from me still standing too close. I grab a plate, loading it up with everything in reach. Little of this, little of that. My go-to method.
When I pass her the plate, I wink. “Little bit of everything. Didn’t want you missing out on the experience.”
She tilts her head, eyes soft but teasing.
“Experience?”
“Yeah,” I murmur, leaning closer until my lips almost brush her ear. “First time’s supposed to be memorable.”
She laughs, quiet and shaky, and it’s like a damn symphony in my veins.
Across the island, Chace groans.
“Jesus, they’re disgustingly cute.”
I flick a fortune cookie at him. “Keep running your mouth, I’ll use these chopsticks to feed you wasabi straight.”
“Wrong takeout, Trey.”
Everyone laughs. It’s easy. Familiar. The kind of noise that fills every corner of the room with life. I grab a stool beside Sera, sitting close enough that I can feel her warmth seeping through my skin. She’s quiet, watching the chaos, that little half-smile on her lips that says she’s trying to take it all in—the banter, the food, the music. This world’s new to her, all of it. But she’s here, beside me, free, and that’s what matters.
She takes a bite—small, delicate—then makes this sound that shoots straight through me. A soft, breathy moan that doesn’t belong anywhere near a dinner table.
Her eyes go wide.
“This is…wow. What is this? It’s delicious.”
I grin, shoveling noodles onto my plate.
“Garlic king prawns.”
The color drains from her face. Fork clatters against porcelain.
“I’m not—I…” She swallows hard. “My father said one should never eat prawns.”
Your daddy can suck my dick…
The table goes quiet for a beat. Even Sam looks up mid-bite, brows lifted. I lean my elbow on the counter, watching her.
“Religious thing?”
