"We'll die of scurvy in three days," Amelia noted, eyeing the gummy worms.
"Gummy worms have fruit juice," Kai lied. "It's basically a salad."
By 10:00 PM, the "Resistance Headquarters" felt less like a bunker and more like the world's most high-stakes slumber party.
We had all changed into comfortable clothes. Rhett was in sweatpants (no shirt, obviously). Kai was in flannel pajama pants. Ivy was wearing a silk robe that looked like it cost more than my tuition.
"Movie night!" Rook announced.
The Fae professor floated down from the ceiling, where he had been meditating upside down. He waved a hand, and an illusion flickered to life on the far wall of the bunker. It was a projection screen, crisp and high-definition.
"I have retrieved the digital archives," Rook said vasty. "Which is to say, I hacked Ivy's Netflix account."
"What are we watching?" Stone asked. He was sitting in the corner, sharpening a dagger with a rhythmicshhhk-shhhksound. "We should be reviewing tactical footage of Marrow's patrol routes."
"We are watchingThe Proposal," Ivy declared, snatching the remote (an illusionary one created by Rook) from the air.
Stone stopped sharpening. "The... Ryan Reynolds movie?"
"Ryan Reynolds is a national treasure," Ivy said, throwing a popcorn kernel at him. "He represents the peak of human evolution. Funny, abs, and Canadian. And we need to decompress, Captain Grumpy. If we watch tactical footage, we'll stress-spiral."
Stone caught the kernel in mid-air and ate it. "Fine. But I reserve the right to critique the security protocols."
"Deal," Ivy grinned.
We settled into the fort.
It was a tight squeeze. I ended up sandwiched between Rhett (who was basically a radioactive furnace) and Lucien (who was cool and solid as marble). Kai was at my feet, massaging my ankles with hands that felt rough and capable.
"This is nice," I whispered, leaning my head on Rhett's shoulder.
"It's crowded," Rhett grumbled. But his arm tightened around me, pulling me closer until I was practically sitting in his lap. "But... yeah. It's okay. You're safe."
"We're safe," Lucien corrected, his eyes on the screen but his hand resting on my knee. "The lead lining is holding. The wards are stable. For tonight, the world cannot touch us."
Across the fort, I saw Arthur and Amelia.
Amelia was sitting on the "pool toy" mattress. She had covered it in a cashmere throw she had magically summoned (orstolen, I wasn't sure) from her dorm. She looked pristine, sitting with her legs crossed, holding a teacup like she was at the Ritz.
Arthur was making tea on a portable camp stove. He poured a second cup and handed it to her.
"Chamomile," he said softly. "With a drop of Valerian root. To help you sleep."
Amelia took the cup. Her fingers brushed his. For a second, neither of them moved.
"You're an enabler, Arthur," she said, but her voice lacked its usual bite.
"I'm a provider," he corrected. He sat down next to her—not too close, respecting her space, but close enough that their shoulders brushed when he shifted.
"Do you think he's out there?" Amelia asked, staring at the steam rising from her cup. "Marrow?"
"Probably," Arthur said, taking a sip of his own tea. "He's probably pacing his office, wondering where an entire resistance cell disappeared to. He's probably checking the closets."
"He'll find us," she whispered. "He always finds the leaks."
"Not tonight," Arthur promised. His voice was calm, steady. The voice of a man who cataloged chaos for a living. "Tonight, the lead holds. Tonight, the logic holds. Tonight, you're just a girl watching a movie about immigration fraud."
Amelia looked at him. She looked at his messy hair, his tweed vest, the smudge of ink on his cheek.
