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Nobody around them questions it anymore.

Luke notices where I’m looking. “Still weird seeing it?”

“A little.”

“That’s because most people spend their lives thinking relationships only count if they fit clean inside categories.”

I watch June reach automatically for Wayne’s hand while Fletcher steals one of her marshmallows directly off the roasting stick and gets smacked for it.

Laughter breaks out.

No jealousy. No tension. Just people who clearly belong to each other in whatever shape they built together.

“I used to think there was one correct version of love,” Luke says after a moment. “Then I met drifters, bikers, truckers, weird artists, ex-cons, single parents…” He shrugs one shoulder. “Turns out people make homes and families out of all kinds of situations.”

I nod, but unease unsettles in my chest after that, because the problem isn’t just that all three of us care about Laurel.

The problem is that every time we’re together lately, she fits.

With Briggs making Lucy laugh. With Ashby showing up before sunrise carrying coffee and stability. With me understanding her silences before she explains them. And none of us knows what the hell to do with that yet.

But watching June and her men beside the fire tonight, another thought slips in beneath the panic.

Maybe Luke’s right. Maybe relationships don’t have to look one specific way to be real. Back near the fire, Laurel throws her head back laughing at something Lucy says.

The sound carries across the clearing, a warm, rich thread of gold against the dark.

And before I can stop myself, I smile too.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Laurel

By the time we leave the bonfire, Lucy smells like smoke, marshmallows, and bad decisions.

“She had one donut,” Briggs says from the driver’s seat.

“That donut weighed more than she does,” I point out.

“Exaggeration weakens your argument,” Ashby says.

I glare at him, to no effect.

From the backseat, Lucy leans sleepily against the window clutching Bun in one arm and Bernard the otter in the other.

“The donut was tasty,” she mumbles.

“Traitor,” I mutter.

The rain starts again halfway down River Road, pattering softly against the windshield while headlights slide through dark trees in pale ribbons. The truck feels warm after being outside at the bonfire. Sleepy. Full of lingering smoke and the buzz of the heater.

I keep catching the men glancing at each other strangely when they think I won’t notice. Tiny shifts in expression. Pauses that feel loaded with information nobody’s volunteered yet.

At this point I’m one more suspicious interaction away from building an investigation board with pins and red string.

Lucy yawns hugely. “The fire was loud.”

“That’s generally how fire works,” I tell her.