Marie's scent softens, pleased. I pretend my chest doesn't warm slightly at the inclusion.
We put groceries away. Marie hands Drake his granola bars; he presses a hand to his heart like she's given him a priceless gift. Eli inspects the tea selection with a pleased little hum. Ragon lifts the crate of sparkling water like it weighs nothing and stacks it in the pantry.
When the last bag is emptied, Marie wipes her hands on her borrowed-on-purpose shirt and hesitates. "I might lie down for a bit. It's a lot of everything."
"Go," Eli says gently. "Rest."
She nods and disappears down the hall.
For the first time since we got home, the air shifts.
Their attention swings back to me.
It feels like stepping into a patch of sunlight after walking in someone else's shadow for hours.
Drake leans against the counter, arms folded. "Thank you, by the way."
"For not committing homicide in aisle seven?"
"For trying. For giving her a chance. I know you didn't want to."
He doesn't sayI'm still his girl. He doesn't say he should have given me a forehead kiss too. But something in his scent, in the way his hazel eyes soften, tells me he knows those things matter.
I look away before I can forgive him completely.
Eli reaches out and brushes an invisible crumb from my shoulder. "How are you feeling?"
"Like the prize in a very bad game show. Congratulations, you get to stay in the house you already live in, and your consolation gift is constant emotional whiplash."
His mouth curves. "Accurate."
Ragon is watching me with that evaluating look he gets. The one that makes me feel like he's seeing all the parts I'd rather keep hidden.
"Come here."
My heart does that stupid little skip. "You know you can just say 'please' like a normal person, right?"
"Please. Come here."
The please should not hit me as hard as the command. My body doesn't know the difference.
I walk toward him.
He's all broad shoulders and calm presence, the man bun making his features sharper, more severe. The tattoos on his arms are stark today—thick black bands around his biceps, intricate knotwork winding down the inside of his forearms to his wrists. There's a scar near his left elbow, pale and thin against the ink, a reminder of some accident with a saw he brushed off and I lost sleep over.
Once I'm close enough that his scent wraps around me fully, he takes my wrist in his hand. His palm is big and calloused, swallowing my fingers.
In one smooth, unhurried motion, he tugs me down and into his lap.
A surprised sound escapes me. My hands fly to his shoulders to steady myself. His thighs are solid beneathme, his chest a wall at my back. One arm loops around my waist, heavy and possessive, the other resting on his thigh.
"Ragon."
"You did well," he says quietly, ignoring my embarrassed sputter. "I'm acknowledging that."
"It wasn't some heroic quest. It was a grocery run."
"You didn't have to be decent. You chose to be."
