It’s the card I plucked. But Willow will know. It’s all about her. My Dagger Kitten queen.
I hit post. There. That ought to appease the masses and get them off my back for a few days. I’ll need to tell Bianca to record some footage at the show tomorrow. It isn’t as much shirtless flaunting as the feral TikTok consumers want, but at least I won’t have to go to all this extra effort.
“Mommy should be the only one who gets the skin now,” I coo to the rabbit as I scratch her cheeks. Her little nose twitches, and she blinks at me like she’s listening. “At least if I had a say in it.”
She climbs up my chest, headbutting her furry little head into my chin. I may have only had this ball of fluff for a week, but she’s my child now, the second best thing that’s ever happened to me.
With a kiss, I put her back in her ridiculously large enclosure. For a second, I debate just bringing her with me, but who the hell brings their pet rabbit to Thanksgiving dinner when you’re meeting your girlfriend’s family?
I’m unhinged, but that would be a little too weird, even for me.
I wander into my walk-in closet and set my phone on the bathroom counter as I pass through. I survey the options hanging, debating what the hell to wear for tonight’s adventure. I settle on a black button-up, rolling the sleeves up to my elbows.
But just after I pull some jeans on, the screen of my phone lights up and it dings.
I only have one kind of notification like that set up. I cross the space in two long strides and snatch my phone from the counter.
@valetarot:
bet you could make other things disappear as good as those cards. How about cotton and underwire?
My grin is instant. I’m going to this dinner looking like a lunatic.
I should not be this feral over one line of text. But fuck,how about cotton and underwire?I might combust before I even make it to her front door.
I look back in the mirrors, adjusting my collar like it matters. Truth is, I’ve got zero idea what people wear to meet the family. I’ve never done this before. Not once. Not even close.
Most guys dread this kind of thing because they think the family is going to grill them. Me? I’m half-expecting a firing squad. Or to be pressured into a blood oath. Maybe both. My stomach twists. I’ve fought men twice my size, faked my own death, faced down mob bosses. But tonight? Tonight feels bigger.
Because it’sher.
And because I’ve seen that house dozens of times from the outside. Parked down the block, watching the lights, wondering what it’d be like to belong to the world inside. Now I’m about to walk in the front door.
My phone buzzes. Notifications explode under the TikTok post. I don’t even check them. There’s only one comment that matters, and I’ve already memorized it. I stuff the device into my back pocket and take one last look in the mirror. Presentable. Still me. But fuck, my grin looks unhinged.
“Calm the hell down,” I mutter to my reflection.
The reflection doesn’t listen. It just looks at me like it knows just how gone I am.
I grab the pumpkin pie that I made and head to my car. Yes. Imadea pumpkin pie. From scratch. I didn’t even put any proteinpowder in it. It’s been a hot minute since I cooked anything that wasn’t purely to feed the machine that is my body, but Icancook. If there’s a time to prove it, it’s on Thanksgiving Day.
The drive to her house only takes a few minutes, but my heart gives me an entire workout in that span of time. I hope I’m not drenched in sweat by the time I park at the curb and climb out. I’m wondering what the hell is wrong with me as I walk up the sidewalk. Since when am I this un-cool? I perform in front of thousands of people every night, but meeting the family of my girlfriend? I’m about to crack.
But as I step onto the front porch, the door opens, and suddenly, I can breathe again.
Willow stands there like she’s been waiting her whole life just to knock the air out of me. Her grin is feral and bright, eyeliner sharp enough to cut, blue eyes brighter than the Strip behind her. Before I can say a word, she’s on me—hands fisted in my shirt, pulling me into a kiss. She damn near knocks the pie out of my hands.
My entire body goes still. My mind stops. My chest stops. Everything that’s been spinning since the day I faked my own death just… grounds.
She tastes like tea and danger, like chaos disguised as comfort. Her mouth is soft, but the kiss has teeth—like she’s reminding me she’s not safe, and I’m not safe, but somehow together we are. She is gravity. My axis. My true north. For the first time in years, I feel anchored to something that isn’t survival.
When she pulls back, I realize I’ve been clutching her waist with my free hand like if I let go, I’ll fly apart. She laughs softly against my mouth, and it’s the kind of sound that stitches you back together.
“I missed you,” she confesses.
“It’s only been a day and a half,” I tease her, even though I’ve felt every minute of it, too.
“Don’t remind me. Come in,” she says, tugging at my sleeve like she owns me already. Because she does.
