"Shut up." I close the door behind them.
"If you cry when you see her," she adds, "I reserve the right to mock you forever."
"Fuck you," I say, but there's no heat in it. She grins and heads down the hall after Maggie.
Sloane appears at the bedroom door right as they reach it. My T-shirt hangs off one shoulder, barely brushing the tops of her thighs, and she has sleep in her eyes. Hair tangled. She looks fresh out of my bed, and I lose whatever I was about to say.
She blushes the second she sees me looking. My hand curls around the doorframe.
Maggie takes one look at Sloane, then at me, and snorts. "Out," she orders, marching forward as if this is her house. "We're turning your girl into a bride. You're in the way."
"She already looks like—" The bedroom door shuts in my face. I stare at the wood. "I live here," I tell the door. It doesn't give a shit.
Maggie's voice, warm and soothing, filters through. Frankie's sharper, teasing edge. Sloane's small, startled laugh.
You wanted her protected, genius. This is protection.
I head to the kitchen before I do something stupid. Break my own door down, probably.
There's another knock. Heavier. Knuckles on solid wood.
I open the door. Malachi fills the frame. Big shoulders. Green eyes. Beard shadowed. Cut on over a dark tee, hands in his pockets as though he got dragged out of a war room and deposited at my front step.
Behind him, James carries a grocery bag and a thermos. East is in sunglasses even though it's still early. Nash brings up the rear, hands in his hoodie pocket, eyes taking in everything.
"Morning," Malachi says.
"House smells good," James adds, moving past me as if he's walked into this kitchen a thousand times.
East claps my shoulder, then grins. "Heard you're making honest women now, Vice."
I shove him off. "Eat and die."
Nash doesn't say anything. Just nods once, chin tipping in that small, almost invisible way that passes for affection with him.
They fill the kitchen as though they have assigned spots. Malachi leans against the counter, back to the cabinets, facing the room. East goes straight for the finished bacon, fingers snagging a strip before I can smack him.
"Try it," I warn. "You're losing a finger."
He bites the end off anyway, chews, then grins. "Worth it."
James opens my cabinets without asking, finds plates, then starts laying them out as if he’s preparing a Thanksgiving feast instead of a courthouse run. He pulls the grocery bag onto the counter, pulling out orange juice, fruit, and a carton of Maggie's "real food" yogurt.
"Where's your girl?" James asks, as though we've known her ten years instead of three days.
"Getting kidnapped by Maggie and Frankie. Bedroom."
As if on cue, laughter filters down the hall. Sloane's voice, higher than usual, is threaded with disbelief. Frankie's dark chuckle comes next. Maggie clucks her tongue after.
Malachi watches me. Doesn't say anything for a full minute. I drop bread into the toaster. Flip the eggs. Try to pretend this doesn't feel like the edge of a cliff.
"You sure?" Malachi asks finally.
I don't look at him. "Been sure. Today just makes it legal." A slow nod. Approval. And closer to finally.
James pours himself coffee, takes a sip, and makes a pleased sound. "Marriage is picking the same person every day, Knox. Even on the days you want to wring their neck. Paper's just the starter pistol."
East leans his hip against the counter. "Look at him." He gestures at me with his coffee. "He's been married for half a minute already and only just decided to tell the government."
