Page 96 of The Art of Ruin

Better than most people would be walking into this kind of noise, but then she’s used to us. But it’s hard to reconcile that Casey with the one with us now. The other Casey was loud, confident, full of fun and sass.

This new Casey is careful, reserved, and I can’t help thinking it has something to do with that asshole ex of hers. I still don’t know what the story is there or how it all adds up, but I know she isn’t to blame.

She talks when she’s spoken to, listens when she needs to, smiles easily enough that most people wouldn’t look twice.

But I can see it.

The way she edges her back into the couch, like she’s trying to anchor herself without making it obvious. The brief press of her hand against the armrest when the conversation gets louder, her body tense, controlled but in a way that only stands out if you know what to look for. And now I do. All her tells are there as plain as day for me to read on her face.

She’s holding it together.

But it’s costing her, and that’s not good enough.

And if I leave it, she’ll keep going until she pushes too far, because that’s clearly what she does—pushes it, works around it, makes sure no one else has to put themselves out for her. It makes me want to hunt down every single person who ever made her feel like she’s a burden and beat them until they feel a fraction of her pain.

The thought stops me short. When did she become someone I’d go to war for? I can’t pinpoint a moment, just that it’s true.

I cross the room without announcing it, picking up a glass of water on the way, and stop directly in front of her instead of beside her, close enough that she has to look up, before I drop to my haunches in front of her.

“Relax back properly,” I say quietly, already shifting the cushion behind her before she can argue, my hand briefly on her elbow to guide her back into it.

“I am relaxed,” she murmurs, but there’s no real resistance behind it, as she lets me move her.

“Not comfortably,” I reply, adjusting the throw at her side so she doesn’t have to reach for it.

She exhales softly, something caught between a sigh and a reluctant acceptance and lets it happen. “You don’t need to do this, Adi.”

Adi. That’s the first time she’s called me that, and I find I want to hear it again.

I soften my tone. “I know, but I want to. Please let me.”

Her nod is small and hesitant.

That alone tells me enough.

I set the glass within her reach, then glance toward the kitchen. “Tea or something stronger?”

Her brow lifts slightly. “Are those my only options?”

“For now.”

There’s the faintest hint of a smile. “Tea’s fine But later I want one of these famous hot chocolates.”

I give her a wink. “Play your cards right, and I’ll even add marshmallows.”

Her mouth opens in shock as I move away.

By the time I’m back with her tea, the room has shifted.

Isabella is beside her now.

Her body is angled toward Casey in a way that is protective, caring. Her hand rests briefly against Casey’s arm as she says something low, her voice quiet enough that I don’t catch the words.

Casey leans in slightly to answer.

There’s a pause.

Isabella’s expression softens, something more serious slipping through for a second before she nods, her thumb brushing once over Casey’s sleeve in a small, reassuring gesture.