And flowers.
There are bouquets of flowers everywhere.
My throat does that stupid, traitorous tight thing. “What… what is this?”
Hayes grins. “A date.”
“A…” My voice cracks. “A date?”
Beck looks away, muttering, “Come on, it’s cute.”
Ford just takes my hand and leads me down the cobblestone pathway toward the bubble. He unzips the flap, and I can’t help but reach out and touch the material it’s made of. Not quite rubber, not quite plastic, not quite silicone. I don’t know what it is, to be honest, but when I step inside, the warmth of the bubble pulls me in the rest of the way.
Ford yanks me down onto the blanket beside him.
And the thing is, this backyard date with the three of us? It works. It’s not fancy. It’s not polished. It’s not expensive. But it feels safe. Honest. A little messy. A little out of place. A little too much. Very them.
Verymine.
I sniff, which is mortifying, and wave a hand at the spread. “You guys are ridiculous.”
“Romantic,” Hayes corrects, dimples on full blast as he hands me a plate. His eyes soften. “You’re allowed to let us do this, Lo.”
I look at all three of them. My pack. My disaster men. All staring at me like I hung the damn moon.
And instead of fighting it, instead of running like I always do, I let them.
Ford steadies the plate in my lap before I can drop it.
Because I almost do. My hands are shaking. Stupid traitor hands.
Bread. Cheese. Strawberries so red they look fake. Honey in a jar that Hayes immediately uncaps and sticks his finger in like an absolute menace.
“Classy,” I mutter.
He grins, licking his fingertip. “What? It’s thematic. Sweet honey for my sweet honey.”
I groan. “If you start spouting poetry, I’m leaving.”
“Where?” Beck deadpans, tearing off a hunk of bread and shoving it in his mouth. “Back to bed? You’d make it about three steps before collapsing.”
Rude. True. But rude.
Ford, unbothered, passes me the largest grape I’ve ever seen. I don’t even want to know how they got their hands on produce like this in the middle of winter. He doesn’t say anything, just watches until I take a bite.
And okay. Fine. It’s good. Summer sun and sugar good, despite the winter wind kicking up outside. It smells like snow, but inside our little bubble, the wood-burning stove keeps us warm.
It’s the kind of good that makes my stupid eyes sting.
“Don’t cry over fruit, Lo,” Beck mutters, ears pink.
“I’m not,” I snap around a mouthful, which is a lie, and everyone knows it.
Hayes flops back on the blanket, hands behind his head. “This is nice, right?”
My body sinks into the pile of pillows like I belong here. Which is dangerous thinking. But the way Ford’s thumb is brushing over my knuckles in lazy circles, the way Hayes is humming under his breath, the way Beck keeps sneaking glances when he thinks I’m not looking…
Yeah.
