And somehow—despite the wreckage of my day, my disappearing housing, my collapsing plans—the tightness in my chest loosened just a fraction.
Because of them.
Because even when I didn’t want to be here, they pulled me back from the edge.
And because ofher.
Not that I’d ever admit that part out loud.
The front door clicked open again, followed by Livvi’s usual exhausted, “Please tell me someone ordered food.”
Ridge shot to his feet like he’d been waiting for his cue. “We did,” he announced proudly. “Three pizzas. And garlic knots, because we care.”
Livvi kicked off her shoes and shuffled inside, her hair falling out of its braid. She looked about one second away from face-planting onto the couch.
“Oh, thank goodness,” she breathed.
Talon tugged Livvi into his side, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
The apartment instantly felt lighter with her here, like she brought some kind of balanced energy none of the rest of us could replicate. Not only was I happy for Talon, but she was a great addition to our group.
Talon handed her a plate piled with pizza, and she sank onto the couch with a groan.
Ridge plopped down beside her. “Okay, important question: are we watching the heist movie or the terrible rom-com Roxie picked?”
“It’s not terrible,” Roxie snapped. “It has a forty-one percent on Rotten Tomatoes.”
“That’s terrible,” I muttered.
Livvi snorted around a mouthful of pizza. “I agree. Let’s do the heist movie.”
The debate settled, and as the movie started, the earlier tension in my body slowly unwound. Being crammed on a couch with these chaotic idiots … it was the first time all day I didn’t feel like I was drowning.
Halfway through, Talon stretched, looked down at Livvi zonked against his shoulder, and whispered, “We’re calling it. She’s out.”
Roxie yawned. “Same.”
Within minutes, everyone started peeling away for the night. Roxie and Ridge made their way to the front door, and Talon lifted Livvi bridal-style even though she swore she could walk.
Their laughter and muffled footsteps faded, leaving me alone in the living room with empty pizza boxes and the glow of the paused TV.
I lingered a moment.
It was the good kind of quiet—warm, relaxed, lived-in. The kind that made you feel like you belonged somewhere, even if you weren’t sure you deserved it.
I cleaned on autopilot. Tossing empty bottles, stacking plates, and straightening pillows Talon never bothered to fix. By the time the place looked ready for human habitation again, the heaviness in my chest had eased enough that I could take a full breath.
I grabbed my keys from the coffee table and flicked off the lights.
The hallway outside was cooler, quieter. As I made my way down the stairs and out into the night, the Florida air wrapped around me, thick and warm and reassuring. My car waited under the streetlamp like it always did, sun-bleached and dependable.
The drive home was short. Familiar turns. Empty roads. Too much space for my brain to replay my problems on a loop.
Coach Saunders’s warning.
My disappearing housing.
My evaporating funds.
