The nickname lands with a strange familiarity. Like an old hoodie found in the back of the closet—soft, worn, mine.
Chace claps his hands like an overenthusiastic game show host. “Right! Time for presents.” He drops a stuffed bag on the bed. “We got you swag. I brought fuzzy socks. Because softness is a lifestyle.”
“And I got you a singing llama,” Sam says, sliding a smoothie and fruit bowl onto my tray like a proud chef. “Also? We missed you. Doesn’t matter what you remember—you’re family. We’ve got enough stories to fill in the blanks.”
My throat goes tight. “Thank you,” I whisper. And I mean it. Even if everything inside me is still tangled, their presence feels like finding the door to a house I didn’t know I belonged to.
Trey’s already digging into the bag. “And now, the pièce de résistance—stress boobs!”
I blink. “I’m sorry… what?”
Logan groans, hand covering his face like this is a familiar nightmare.
Trey beams. “Boobs are great. Always cheer me up. And since they don’t make a goth thigh stress ball, this was the next best thing.”
“I wanted to get you a stress dick,” he adds, completely unfazed by the collective groan, “but the cashier thought I meant dildo and somehow I ended up nearly buying the Fist of God—don’t ask.”
Thwack.
Sam smacks the back of Trey’s head.
Trey laughs and immediately starts picking at my fruit bowl. Chace bats his hand away like a raccoon guarding a snack stash.
“To be fair,” Sam mutters as he adjusts my tray, “cucumbers are kind of a superfruit.”
“They’re vegetables,” Chace shoots back.
“Botanically, they’re fruit,” Sam says without missing a beat.
Trey raises a brow. “Alright, AI. Where’d you download that from?”
The room erupts into bickering, and somehow, I’m laughing. Really laughing. The ache in my chest eases, just a little.
Then Trey turns to me with a glint in his eye. Mischief incarnate. “Alright, Macabelle, tell me—what’s the difference between hungry and horny?”
I gape at him. “I—I don’t know?”
He leans in, all drama. “Where you put the cucumber.”
Logan groans again, face buried in his hands.
Thwack.
Another well-earned smack.
But I laugh. I can’t help it.
I glance down at the flowers. The scent is fresh, earthy. The petals stretch toward the window like they know how to find the light, even in a place like this.
Just like I need to.
Then it hits me.
A flicker.
Sunlight. Laughter. A couch covered in cheap blankets. I’m barefoot, legs curled into someone’s lap—Trey’s? He’s groaning about sunflower seeds in the carpet while I’m laughing so hard my stomach hurts.
My breath catches.
