"Livestock is innovation," James corrects. "You're mad because you didn't think of it."
Nash looks at James as if he's considering whether wise men are exempt from consequences. James doesn't flinch. Never does.
East points his cue toward the yard. "Look at them. They're not even trying to win. They're bonding. That's why we lost."
Malachi's gaze flicks to the window. Candace is outside too, closer to Maggie than the goat, posture calm, eyes watchful in that quiet way she has when she's finally letting herself exist without bracing for the next hit. She says something to Sloane, and Sloane's face softens just for a second.
I want that softness for her forever. I want her to stop counting the cost of laughing.
"That's disgusting," Nash says, dragging us back. "Bonds. Emotions. Friendship."
Kyle huffs a laugh before he can stop himself. Everyone looks at him. Kyle freezes as though he's committed a felony.
East grins. "He lives."
Kyle clears his throat, faintly red. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize for laughing," Malachi says, flat but not cruel. "You'll give James a heart attack."
James raises his beer in a lazy toast. "I'll survive."
I slide the triangle off and tap the cue ball into position. "We're not done with this prank war. We just miscalculated."
East brightens. "Finally. He admits it."
Nash cuts a look at me. "We need something that hits them where it hurts."
"They have no shame," James says. "So that'll be difficult."
"Everyone has a weakness," East argues. "For example—" He gestures toward the yard. "Darla thinks she's subtle when she's filming. She is not."
Outside, Darla angles her phone for East's profile. East raises his beer toward the window without turning around, the toast aimed blind. Darla flips him off. East's grin goes wider. He'd die happy just to earn that.
Rider pushes off the wall, picks up a dart, and throws. It lands close to Nash's last hit, steady.
Nash goes still. "You trying to start something?"
"Just practicing."
"For what?" East asks.
Rider glances toward the yard, back. "Anything."
Simple, but true.
Malachi steps to the table. "Break," he says.
I step aside. The crack of cue against a ball is sharp, satisfying, and the rack explodes across the felt. A couple drop immediately. East groans, personally affronted.
"Show-off."
Malachi sets up his next shot as if winning requires no thought.
My phone buzzes. One line.
I can feel you staring at me through the glass. It's distracting.
My jaw tightens around a grin that wants to break my face open. I type back quickly.
