“You know them?” I asked, heart already picking up speed.
“Teammates,” he said, opening his door. “Try not to let Kellen talk you into anything illegal.”
Oh boy.
Wyatt was the first to notice us. He gave the most adorably awkward wave I’d ever seen—like his hand couldn’t decide if it was saluting, high-fiving, or swatting a bug. I waved back instinctively, just as awkward, and instantly regretted it. Social grace? Never met her.
He looked like he’d walked straight out of a post-apocalyptic lab, grime and all, with a gnarly scar slashing from one cheekbone down toward his jaw and a generally “wounded hero with a tragic past” vibe. If a Ghoul from Fallout had golden retriever energy and the tendency to trip over his own skate guards, it would be Wyatt. I liked him immediately.
Then Asher—who radiated chaotic pirate energy, like if Calico Jack had discovered protein powder—grinned and called out across the lot. “You his emotional support human?”
I snorted, half-choked on my own amusement, and waved him off. “Yup, complete with a comfort hoodie and emotional snack pouch.”
My cheeks burned pink anyway, and I could tell Asher caught it, because he winked like a menace and tipped his imaginary hat.
It was weird… in the best way. I’d expected icy stares or maybe even condescending smirks—some classic locker-room masculinity thing—but instead?
These guys were dorks.
Total lovable, chirpy, offbeat goofballs.
And somewhere deep in my stomach, where my anxiety usually lived, something fluttered that felt suspiciously like… relief.
We were barely inside the café when the chaos began.
“Careful, Reaper’s smiling,” Kellen called from behind the counter, his voice a perfect blend of mockery and theatrical dread. “We might not survive the season.”
I didn’t miss a beat. “You wish you were this intimidating.”
The guys cackled like it was the best thing they’d heard all morning.
Kellen clutched his chest dramatically like I’d just mortally wounded him. “She bites. I like her.”
Nikolai didn’t say much—of course—but his lips twitched, that rare almost-smile playing at the corners as he slid his hand against the small of my back and guided me toward the counter.
We ordered our drinks—some spiced latte situation for me and straight-up black coffee for him—plus a cinnamon pastry to split, even though I already knew I’d eat three-quarters of it. Then we settled into the booth tucked into the far corner.
We hadn’t even taken our first sip when Asher slid into the booth across from us, a devious grin stretching across his face like he’d been waiting all day for this moment.
“So,” he said, chin resting on his clasped hands. “Is it true you used to date Mikel ‘I-Tan-My-Knuckles’ Petrov?”
I blinked. “That is… an uncomfortably accurate nickname.”
Kellen swooped by, coffee cup in hand, and chimed in before I could defend myself. “You deserve hazard pay for that, sweetheart.”
Wyatt—sweet, scarred, and awkward as ever—tried to look scandalized. “Wait, for real? Like, willingly?”
My cheeks flamed. “Okay, okay! I was young and dumb, and he had biceps.”
Kellen cackled. “They all have biceps, babe. It’s the brain cells that are rare.”
I mock-gasped. “Wow. Are we roasting me now? Is that what this is?”
Asher leaned back smugly. “Not roasting. Gently sautéing.”
Nikolai’s arm stretched across the back of the booth, and his voice cut in like cold steel. “She’s not with him anymore. That’s what matters.”
That shut them up—for about three seconds.
