She stops just inside the doorway, towel still wrapped tight around her, hair damp and curling at the ends. Everyone freezes for half a second, like we’re waiting to see whether she’s going to bolt or detonate.
So I do the only sensible thing.
I grab the remote and say, “Right. Emergency protocol.”
She blinks at me. “What?”
“Girls’ night,” I say firmly. “Except we’re wildly underqualified and someone’s probably going to cry into a pillow. My money’s on Bones, obviously.”
Bones snorts despite himself. Ghost’s mouth twitches.
Kayla stares at me like she’s deciding whether to throw something.
I keep going.
“I’m thinking room service. Snacks. Something with melted cheese. Possibly two things with melted cheese.” I squint at the TV. “And a deeply average rom-com. Or a terrible action film with a woman who solves trauma by blowing things up. Dealer’s choice.”
“I don’t—” she starts.
“Nope,” I cut in gently. “You don’t have to decide anything right now. That’s the point.”
I hold up the room service menu like it’s a peace offering.
She hesitates.
That’s the win.
I pat the bed beside me. Not close. Not invasive. Just…available.
“Sit,” I say. “You can glare at me from here. Let me grab you a t-shirt to wear too. All that skin is so distracting.”
She huffs out a breath that might almost be a laugh and crosses the room, perching on the edge like she’s not convinced the furniture is trustworthy.
I flick through channels with exaggerated seriousness while Ghost jumps up to grab and flings a shirt at her. She pulls it on and inhales deeply.
“Okay, so we’ve got…sad kissing. Competitive cooking. Explosions. Oooh – this one looks promising. She’s in heels and firing a weapon larger than her torso.”
Kayla’s mouth twitches.
There it is.
Bones quietly takes the cue and disappears toward the door. Ghost drifts to the window. I stay.
I order enough food to feed a small army. I don’t ask what she wants. I just tick boxes that feel comforting by instinct – salty, sweet, warm, familiar. A mountain of chocolate.
Kayla pulls her knees up, hugging them loosely, towel still on like a barrier she hasn’t decided to drop yet, even with the shirt over the top.
“You’re being ridiculous,” she mutters.
“Extremely,” I agree. “It’s part of the service.”
She glances at me. “Why are you doing this?”
I don’t make it heavy.
I shrug. “Because if I don’t, you’re going to sit there and think yourself back into pieces. And I quite like you in one rather delicious piece. Like my favourite ice lolly I want to lick from head to toe.”
That gets a real laugh. Short. Rough. But real.
