Ro shakes her head. “That kid’s going to come out already exhausted.”
Victoria grins. “That’s parenting. We’re setting expectations early.”
Marley leans forward, lowering her voice as though she’s about to pitch a campaign. “Have you picked names yet?”
Victoria groans and rubs her stomach. “Sin wants something that sounds like it could lead a militia. I suggested something the kid could actually survive high school with.”
“That’s fair,” I say.
Ro snorts. “You naming a baby or a tactical unit?”
Victoria points at her. “You laugh now. But you’re going to be the one teaching bad language behind the bar.”
“Already planning the first word,” Ro says. “Can’t decide if it should be a swear word, or something more poignant.”
Marley grins. “You should run a focus group. I can build a brand identity around the name. Long-term scalability.”
Victoria stares at her. “It’s a human child, not a startup.”
“Says the woman conducting daily performance reviews on her own organs,” Ro mutters.
Marley nudges me. “What would you name a baby, Mills?”
I shrug. “Something simple. Something that doesn’t require a press release.”
Victoria studies me for a moment, eyes sharp in that ex-cop way that makes you feel like she’s already read the file. “You’re quiet today,” she says.
“I’m enjoying listening,” I reply.
“Good,” Marley says. “Because we’ve already decided you’re part of this circus.”
Ro lifts her coffee mug in salute. “No refunds.”
Victoria nods solemnly. “You’re in. We don’t let people leave once we’ve emotionally invested.”
I laugh, and it feels real enough that I don’t question it, and I almost don’t notice when Queenie detaches herself from the corner and makes her way toward us. She doesn’t sit across from me or announce herself. She simply settles into the empty chair at my elbow, and when I turn to look at her, she’s already staring at me, those bright eyes warm and entirely unimpressed with anything as mundane as social convention.
Across the table, Victoria and Marley are deep in a debate over nursery colors and the reliability of gender-reveal kits. Nobody is paying attention to the fact that I have lost track of their conversation.
Queenie gently takes hold of my arm, smiling at me in that calm way she does. “That boy of Bear’s,” Queenie says it low and deliberate, pitched just right so only the people meant to hear itactually do. “He’s been watching you the same way my Damon watched his Marley.” She pauses and lets that land for exactly the right amount of time. “Like you’re already his, and he simply hasn’t said it yet.”
My coffee cup is warm in my hands, and I hold onto it for dear life.
I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing.
Queenie nods, as if silence is precisely the answer she expected and finds it entirely acceptable. “Don’t make him wait too long, dear.” Her voice stays soft, but there’s real weight behind it, the kind that only comes from surviving enough life to understand exactly how expensive wasted time can become. “Life doesn’t.”
She pats the back of my hand once, like that single touch settles the entire conversation in her mind. Then she turns back toward the room with those sharp little eyes of hers, completely satisfied with whatever conclusion she’s already reached about me.
I sit with it.
I sit with all of it.
The phrase turning over and over in my chest alongside the stone that’s been there for two years, the two of them grinding together until the edges blur.
‘Like you’re already his, and he simply hasn’t said it yet.’
Nitro lets out a low laugh at something Marley says across the room. Ro is at the bar telling a story, with enough aggressive hand gestures to suggest property damage might have occurred. Victoria is currently correcting what she considers a catastrophic misunderstanding of the science behind gender prediction.
