I stare at him, and he grins, but it’s thinner than usual.
“Okay,” he amends. “Moderately.”
Zane shuts the truck door behind us with a quiet thud. “You’re not walking in there like nothing happened.”
Finn lifts a brow. “Counterpoint: I absolutely am.”
Ryder cuts in. “You’ll sit.”
Finn sighs like he’s being deeply oppressed. “I hate it here.”
“You chose it,” I remind him.
“Did I, though? Or was I seduced by small-town charm and poor decision making?”
I glance at him. “…that feels accurate.”
He brightens slightly. “Thank you.”
The Hollow is already loud when we walk in, Arlo somehow having kept the place running single-handedly.
Music hums low under the layered voices, glasses clinking, chairs scraping. It’s packed more than usual, which my brain immediately categorizes as suspicious, because now everything is suspicious: every glance, every laugh, every person who looks at us a second too long.
Arlo looks up from behind the bar as we come in. His expression doesn’t change much. Arlo Benton has perfected emotional minimalism, but his eyes flick over Finn, then me, then Ryder.
“Busy,” he says.
“Good,” Ryder replies.
It’s a whole conversation in two words, the kind that doesn’t need anything else.
We move through the crowd carefully. People greet them, nods, claps on the shoulder, casual familiarity, and no one looksalarmed, no one looks like they think we brought violence back with us.
Which is confusing.
Finn gets settled onto a stool whether he wants to or not. Zane gives Arlo a look that clearly translates to ‘don’t let him move,’ and Arlo nods once.
Finn looks betrayed. “You’ve all turned on me.”
“Yes,” I say sweetly. “It’s a coordinated effort.”
Ryder doesn’t sit. He never really sits when he’s thinking. Instead, he stays near the bar, one hand resting against it, posture loose enough to look casual but tight enough that I know he’s still tracking everything in the room.
Zane disappears briefly into the back, probably checking locks, exits—anything that can be controlled.
Which leaves me standing there in the middle of it all, trying to figure out how I’m supposed to act like I didn’t wake up this morning thinking I might die.
“Hey.”
I turn to find Lani already halfway around the bar, looking at me like she’s about to assess my entire emotional state in under three seconds.
“You look like you’ve had a day,” she says.
“That’s because I’ve had… several,” I reply.
She narrows her eyes slightly. “You good?”
“I’m here,” I shoot back.
