There’s a sudden thump against the front door—voices, laughter, and the sound of keys jingling. Mac and I freeze, exchanging a wide-eyed look.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “They’re here!”
Mac grins wickedly. “Perfect timing.”
The door opens, and in spills laughter, boots on marble, and the low hum of male voices echoing through the entryway. Sam’s deep chuckle, Chace’s playful tone, and Logan’s easy laugh fill the space before Trey’s quieter voice cuts through, smooth and familiar.
“Smells like popcorn and girl shit,” Chace calls out as he steps into the living room.
I sink lower into the sofa, clutching my blanket around me, but Mac waves a hand toward him. “You’re just jealous you didn’t get a face mask, pretty boy.”
Chace pauses in the doorway, eyebrows shooting up at the sight of us—two women in flannel pajamas, messy buns, wine glasses in hand, and bright green facemasks gleaming under the soft light. His grin spreads slow and devilish.
“Well, damn. Look at you two. Is it Halloween or Christmas?”
Sam steps in behind him, snorting.
“You two look like you spilled smoothies all over your faces.”
“Welcome back, the two grumpy old men from the Muppets.” Mac grits her teeth.
Logan shoves them playfully, laughing.
“Ignore them,” he says to Mac, crossing to her and kissing her temple despite the mask.
“You look gorgeous, as always.”
My laughter gets caught halfway up my throat when Trey walks in. He’s last, of course—eyes scanning the room before landing squarely on me. His mouth tilts, that lazy smirk tuggingat the corner. I feel like the air has been stolen from my lungs. He’s so devastatingly handsome.
“Baby…” he drawls, voice thick with amusement. “You’ve, uh you’ve got a little something on your face.”
My cheeks heat instantly, which is impressive, considering the minty chill of the mask.
“It’s for my pores!”
He crosses the room slowly, like a predator stalking its prey, stopping just in front of the couch. His green eyes glint under the low light, and I can feel every inch of that gaze skating down my messy bun, oversized pajama shirt, that I took from his side of the closet, and bare legs tucked beneath me.
“Looks like someone attacked you with guacamole,” he murmurs.
I smack his thigh with a throw pillow. Head a little tipsy from the wine.
“Shut up.”
He chuckles, catching the pillow easily, and tosses it back onto the couch.
“You look cute,” he admits, softer this time, leaning down until our noses almost touch. “Like you’ve been playing spa day Barbie.”
I arch a brow. “If you keep talking, I’m going to put some on you too.”
Mac whistles from behind her wine glass.
“Do it, Sera. He’d look stunning in cucumber green.”
Trey laughs, shaking his head, his hand sliding down to squeeze my knee gently.
“Don’t even think about it, baby.”
His fingers linger there, tracing lazy circles against my skin, and suddenly I forget about the mask, the mess, everything but the weight of his gaze and the faint scent of cologne and winter air clinging to him.
