Page 156 of Filled

Sleep takes me somewhere in the middle of that thought.

When I wake up in the gray morning light, stiff-necked and buried under Dakota and one of Dante’s stolen blankets, they’re all there.

Every single one of them stayed.

35

DANTE

The private dining room at Bellucci’s sits an hour outside Ravenwood Hollow, tucked behind a wine cellar door that the owner’s granddaughter opened for me with a knowing smile. One long table. Five place settings.

Five.

I stand back and look at the number and my throat does that tight thing it’s been doing all week.

The wine is breathing. The staff thinks I’m hosting a business dinner for out-of-town partners. The playlist is low enough to talk over. I’ve checked the parking situation three times, confirmed the back entrance twice, and paid enough extra that nobody will open that cellar door until I ask them to.

Cruz arrives first, and I almost don’t recognize him.

“Say one word,” he warns, tugging at the collar of an actual button-down, sleeves rolled to show the eagles and roses inked up his forearms. “One word, Jackson.”

“You iron that yourself?” I tease.

“My last roommate left his iron. I have YouTube.” He turns in a slow circle, arms out. “Verdict?”

“Verdict is I’m gonna have trouble keeping my hands off you through the appetizers.”

His grin splits wide. “That’s the correct verdict.”

Brady comes through the door ten minutes later in dark jeans and a henley, hair still damp from a shower, looking like a kid on his first real date. Which, in a way, he is. He stops at the threshold and takes in the candles, the wine, the table.

“Dante.” His voice cracks on my name. “What is this?”

“This is dinner. Sit down before you cry in the doorway.”

“I’m not gonna—” He clears his throat. Sits. His knee bounces under the table until Cruz clamps a big hand over it.

Then the cellar door opens again and Eli walks in with Dakota on his arm, and my chest forgets how lungs work.

She’s in a dress. Deep green, simple, nothing fancy, but I’ve only ever seen her in training gear and hoodies and the occasional pair of jeans, and now her hair is down over her shoulders and there’s makeup on her face and she looks at the table set for five and her whole expression comes apart.

“You did this,” she whispers.

“I did this.”

“For us,” she replies.

“For us.”

She crosses the room and kisses me, right there.

Eli shakes my hand like we’re sealing a contract, but his grip lingers, thumb pressing into my wrist. “An hour out. Private room. Paid staff.” His green eyes move over the logistics the way he studies fight film. “You thought of everything.”

“I learned from watching you obsess over training camps.”

“Smartass.” He pulls me into a brief, hard hug, and against my ear: “Thank you.”

We sit, and for a moment, nobody speaks.