I don't know where to look.
Part of me expects Drake to jump up immediately, to follow them. To do what he always does—smooth things over, comfort, mediate.
He doesn't.
Instead, he motions to Jasper to switch with him and settles in next to me. Close enough that his knee brushes mine.
The contact startles me.
"Well," he says lightly, like the room hasn't just been split open, "that's one way to kill the vibe."
A few people blink at him. Someone lets out a weak, surprised snort.
"Drama queens," Drake adds, stacking the cards back into a neat pile. "Ruining perfectly good poker hands."
There's a beat of hesitation.
Then, slowly, someone reaches for their chips again.
"I was winning," one of the hospital guys mutters.
"You were losing," Drake corrects cheerfully. "Let's not rewrite history."
A few tentative chuckles ripple around the table. Not loud. Not easy. But enough to loosen the air just a fraction.
The game resumes in fits and starts—cards shuffled, chips pushed forward, conversation carefully rerouted. Drake keeps talking, filling silences before they can harden.
I sit there, stunned.
Confused.
Drake stayed.
He chose the chair beside me instead of the hallway. Chose the table. Chose me—at least in this moment—over following after Marie.
I don't know what to do with that.
My heart is still racing, my skin still hot with embarrassment, but the weight of his presence at my side anchors me just enough that I can breathe again.
I glance at him, searching his face for something—regret, doubt, second thoughts.
He catches my look and gives me a quick, easy grin, like everything is fine. Like he hasn't just made a choice that feels heavier than he realizes.
I look back down at my cards, pulse still thudding in my ears, and try to follow the game.
But nothing feels the same anymore.
Not the table. Not the room. Not the pack I thought I understood.
Ragon comes back alone.
I feel him before I see him—the shift in the air, the weight settling back into the room. His face is composed, expression carefully neutral, but his scent tells a differentstory. Anger still coils under the surface, sharp and restrained.
The game stutters but doesn't stop. Cards pause mid-shuffle. Tyler and James glance up, then away again.
Ragon doesn't look at me.
He clears his throat once and addresses the table. "Sorry about that."
