“This is emotional manipulation,” I say.
Psycho circles my legs, sniffing my jeans, my jacket, my boots. He freezes. His head snaps up. His eyes narrow further.
“Oh no,” I mutter. “Don’t you dare.”
He sniffs again. Then he looks at me.
Judging. Hard.
“That’s not even fair,” I argue. “It’s not like I brought him home.”
Menace launches himself at my calf and clings there, claws gentle but insistent, like he’s filing a formal complaint.
I sigh and crouch down, rubbing both of them at once. “You are still my favorite men,” I tell them. “Relax.”
Psycho headbutts my chin like he’s marking me back as his. Menace purrs, instantly forgiving, because of course he does.
I sink onto the couch, jacket still around my shoulders, lips still tingling, heart still doing that stupid, floaty thing. Psycho hops up beside me. Menace curls into my lap like nothing in the world has ever been wrong.
I stare at the ceiling, smiling to myself.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell them quietly. “It was just a date.”
Psycho’s tail flicks again.
Menace purrs louder.
And somehow, between the warmth of their weight and the echo of Lucky’s kiss still living on my mouth, home has never felt more like exactly where I’m supposed to be.
My phone buzzes again.
Biker Boy: You good?
Psycho lifts his head like he’s offended by the interruption. Menace doesn’t even bother opening his eyes.
Me: Yeah. I’m home.
The reply comes fast.
Biker Boy: Good.
Biker Boy: Took you a minute.
I smile to myself.
Me: I had to convince the boys I didn’t abandon them forever.
Three dots appear.
They disappear.
They come back.
Biker Boy: …the boys?
I bite my lip.
Me: Relax.
