“Absolutely.”
Ten minutes later, she’s got Lucas, DeShawn, and Annie spread out around the custom walnut table, wine glasses and snacks scattered in front of them like some deranged poker night at a five-star hotel. The warm glow of the backlit bar bathes everything in soft amber. A muted soul playlist hums in the background, courtesy of DeShawn’s playlist and the $30,000 sound system.
“She got me with the librarian guilt trip,” Lucas grumbles as he draws a card. “And she promised peanut M&M’s.”
“I came for the snacks,” DeShawn adds.
“I came to destroy you all,” Annie says cheerfully, already arranging her hand like she’s planning war crimes.
We start with Uno, which devolves into bitter betrayal within five rounds. Then it’s Spit, Spoons, a cursed attempt at Go Fish, and some aggressive version of BS where Nora liesway too wellfor someone who claims to hate bluffing games.
The bus rocks softly beneath us. Someone put on a playlist—DeShawn’s slow funk mix—and it rolls in the background like a heartbeat under the laughter.
I sit back at one point, cards fanned in my hand, and watch her.
She’s sitting between Annie and Lucas, laughing so hard her nose crinkles. She talks shit with the best of them, side-eyes DeShawn like a pro, and somehow gets Lucas to admit to losing his virginity to a girl named “Madison” during a camping trip involving marshmallows and a terrible playlist.
And no one looks at her like she doesn’t belong.
No one questions her place.
Because shedoesbelong.
Right here.
With them.
With me.
I feel it like a low thrum in my chest—this quiet, grounding truth.
She looks over suddenly, like she can feel me watching. “What?” she mouths, eyes soft.
I shake my head. Just smile.
Because how do I saythis?No one’s paying us any attention.
So when Nora shifts in her seat and her hand slides under the table—innocent at first, just resting on my thigh—I barely react.
Then she moves her handup.
A few inches. Slow.Deliberate.
And suddenly, I’m not thinking about cards anymore.
I freeze. My heart thuds in my chest. My mouth goes dry.
She’s watching Annie tell her story like she’s totally innocent, but her fingers are now tracing the seam of my jeans with the lightest, most maddening pressure. Barely there. But enough.
Enough to make me twitch.
Enough to make me shift in my seat.
Enough to make my breath catch in my throat like a damn chokehold.
Lucas slams a card on the table. “Bullshit.”
“I’m literally holding four nines,” DeShawn says, unimpressed.
