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“Wha do you mean, little cub?” Orson asks.
“Just in general.”
“I think you should make another appointment with Kat, if you’re feeling it,” Orson says. “You’ve lost a little bit of weight.”
“I have?” I ask, quietly.
“That’s fine,” Orson says, reassuringly.
“Except if I’m pregnant, it’s a concern,” I say, quietly. Doubt fills me, reminding me of the judgement I received from the first doctor—I still don’t know her damn name—and I can’t help but doubt I’m doing the right thing.
“Then we’ll figure it out,” Fin says.
“We will,” Atticus adds. “What’s the opposite to a diet?”
“A diet is a diet regardless of if you’re eating more or less,” Fin says. “She’s going to improve her diet, making sure to eat more consistently.”
“If you are pregnant, that own’t be hard,” Cevon says. I raise an eyebrow, and he shrugs. “Lainey used to eat a load whilst pregnant. You know, before she died.”
“Fucking hell,” Micah mutters, but I just smile.
I’m used to Cevon’s dark words.
“Well, if only she weren’t dead and I could ask for advice,” I say, and he smirks at me.
“I think her first bit of advice would be to stay alive,” he says, as Orson and Micah both groan, the former going as far as to hide his face. “At least that way your baby won’t die.”
“Good advice,” I say, nodding. “Anyone else want to share some? Maybe some a little less morbid?”
“Don’t get knocked up by a bear,” Mal says, smirking at Orson who growls.
“You lose a point,” I say, frowning up at Mal. My tiger mate glares at me.
“Okay, I don’t get these point,” Cevon says, stopping the fight that was about to occur between Mal and Orson. “I have eight, and no idea what the point of them is.”
“Eight?” Griffin gasps, sitting up properly. He turns to look at Cevon, with an amazed look on his face. “What the fuck? How do you have eight?”
“Is eight good?” Cevon asks, looking around and when he sees a few nods, he smirks. I knew he’d be excited about the points once he realised the others were. “I see. Well, I am winning.”
“I’ve got thirteen,” Atticus says.
“Minus fucking three,” Griffin snaps, turning to me with a frown. “You need to give me more points.”
“I’ll give them when you earn them,” I say, and he huffs.
“I’ve got about eleven,” Micah says.
“About is not accurate,” Voss says, shaking his head. “Doesn’t count. You should lose all your points and need to restart.”
“I’m not restarting,” Micah says.
“You need to keep track of your pints,” I say, having a fun time causing more ammunition in this little fight between them. As they continue to bicker, I relax into Malachi, and just observe—you now, other than the small comments here and there where I’m driving along the fight.
This right here is perfect. We’ve had some ups and downs, and it’s been really fucking complicated.
But it seems that we’ve now reached the end of the drama and the struggles. We’re ready for our happy ending.
I’m ready for my happy ending.
