I smile before I can stop myself. And then I look away because I didn’t mean to do that. My face is warm again.
Why does my face keep doing that?
I catch Rane and Kyron exchanging a look I can’t read.
“How are you feeling?” Rane’s voice. I grab onto it like a lifeline.
“Better.”I risk a glance up. Not at Locke. At Rane. “Thanks.”
“You scared the shit out of us.” He says it lightly, but something underneath isn’t light at all.
“I know. I’m—”
“Don’t apologize.” Kyron pushes off from the doorway, moving into the room. “Just don’t do it again.”
I nod trying not to think about what that means.
“So,” Rane says into the silence. “We should probably talk about—”
“Not tonight.” Beckett’s voice is quiet but firm.
Rane opens his mouth. Closes it.
“He’s right,” Kyron says. “It can wait.”
“We’ll still be here tomorrow,” Vaelor adds. “All of it will still be here tomorrow.”
I watch Locke’s jaw work. He wants to push. I can see it in every line of his body. But he doesn’t.
“Fine,” he says. “Tomorrow.”
Rane rocks back on his heels, shoves his hands in his pockets.
“So… dinner?”
And suddenly they’re moving.
Rane disappears into the kitchen and comes back with plates. Vaelor follows him and returns with more food—enough for everyone, like he’d been planning for this. Kyron grabs silverware. Locke moves one of the chairs closer without being asked.
And Trey—
Trey settles onto the floor with his back against the couch.
Right nextto my legs.
Close enough that if I shifted my knee, I’d touch his shoulder. Close enough that I can feel the warmth of him through the blanket. He doesn’t look at me when he does it. Just drops down like that’s where he belongs and starts eating.
My skin is humming.
I stay on the couch, legs tucked under me, plate balanced on my knees. I’m hyperaware of every inch of space between my leg and his shoulder. The urge to move closer wars with the urge to climb over the back of the couch and flee.
I do neither. I sit there, trying to remember how to eat.
“Our girl’s finally got some color back,” Rane says, and something in my chest stutters.
Our girl.
The words hang in the room. No one corrects him.
