"I..." I look at Carlos, who squeezes my hand. Then at Sergio, who's watching me with that intense focus he usually reserves for game footage. Then at Pedro, who's finally looking up from his papers with something soft in his expression. Then at Nacho, who's grinning like he knows exactly what I'm about to say.
"I might," I manage. "Be developing feelings. For all of you. Hypothetically."
"Hypothetically," Sergio repeats, and his mouth quirks up at the corner.
"It's a working theory," I clarify. "Needs more data."
"I can provide data," Carlos offers.
"We all can," Nacho adds.
Pedro just watches me with those dark eyes, and I feel pinned. Seen. Known.
"Dinner first," Sergio says, breaking the moment. "Then we talk. All of us. About what this means. What we all want."
"I want lasagna," I say, because my brain has apparently decided now is the time for humor as a defense mechanism.
"Then sit." Sergio points at the table. "You look like you're about to fall over."
He's not wrong. My legs are shaky. My whole body feels like it's vibrating at a frequency only dogs can hear.
I sink into a chair, and Carlos sits beside me, close enough that our thighs press together under the table. Nacho's on my other side. Pedro across from me. Sergio serves up plates of lasagna that smell like heaven.
We eat, and it should be awkward. Should be tense. Should be filled with uncomfortable silence and loaded looks.
Instead, it's easy.
Nacho tells a story about the domestic disturbance call that turned out to be a couple fighting over the remote. Pedro shares something about the kid with the bead up his nose, complete with dramatic reenactment. Sergio complains about the league's new policies in that dry way that makes everything sound funnier than it is.
And Carlos keeps his hand on my thigh under the table, thumb drawing lazy circles that make it hard to focus on anything else.
I belong here.
The thought hits me between bites of lasagna, settling into my chest with the weight of absolute certainty.
I belong with these four men, in this kitchen, at this table. Eating too much food and laughing at stupid stories and feeling more like myself than I have in years.
"So," Sergio says when the plates are mostly empty. "Let's talk about Friday."
My stomach drops.
Friday. Callum's dinner. The thing I've been avoiding thinking about for days.
"Do I have to go?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.
"No," all four of them say at once.
"But," Sergio continues, "it might be good to face him. Get it over with. Show him you've moved on."
"Have I moved on?" I look around the table. "Or have I just jumped from one complicated situation to another?"
"The situations are not comparable," Pedro says flatly. "Callum tried to make you smaller. We want you exactly as you are."
"Big and messy and prone to setting things on fire?"
"Exactly," Carlos confirms. "Those are your best qualities."
I laugh. Can't help it. "You're all insane."
