Page 23 of Danger

“About time she made it,” I say. I don’t look at Mama, but I can feel her smile.

Rogue is leaning against the kitchen island, one foot tucked under him, scrolling his phone. He glances up, gives me a slow once-over, and smirks.

“Just swung by your place, D. Where you been?”

“Around.”

Winnie coughs into her wine.

Rogue’s brow jumps. “Uh-huh. Always the mysterious one, brother.”

“Mysterious is way too cool of a label for him,” Charming says. “What am I? The best-looking one?”

Trouble strolls in with Sawyer, clapping Charming on the back. “Best looking? Boy, the only thing you’re known for is ridin’ with an ego big enough to need its own chute.”

“I like to call it confidence,” Charming calls from the fridge.

Winnie looks up at Trouble. Trouble looks down at her.

And there it is.

Not dramatic. Not loud. Just a quiet, awkward second where two people who used to know each other differently try to figure out where to put their eyes now.

“Hey, Win,” Trouble says, easy but not too easy.

“Hey,” she answers, soft, polite. Careful.

Sawyer and her golden-retriever heart doesn't hold back. She quickly pulls Winnie into a hug like there’s no history here at all.

I hear they’ve been hangin’ out, but my guess is, Trouble hasn’t been in the picture much when they do.

“Oh my gosh, your hair looks SO good like that,” Sawyer gushes, stepping back to admire her. “I swear you make the rest of us look like we tried too hard.”

Winnie laughs. “I just threw it up.”

“So unfair,” Sawyer says brightly.

I watch the whole thing from my chair, arms folded. The way Winnie braced for impact when she first walked in. The way she relaxes a notch when Sawyer hugs her. The way Trouble gives her space. Not cold. Not exactly warm. Just careful.

Mama clears her throat and shakes her head, but she’s smiling as she checks the oven. The place smells like melted butter and rosemary. I slip into the seat next to Fisher, ruffle his hair, and say, “You helping or just taste-testing everything first?”

“I have to make sure it’s safe,” he says all innocent, but his lips are already shining from garlic oil.

Benson Bone, the family dog, is stretched out on the rug, head flat, snoring so hard the tile vibrates. He’s technically not allowed at the table, but Fisher slips him food when he thinks no one’s looking. Mama sees, but all she does is roll her eyes.

We eat, and it’s exactly what you’d expect: chaos, too loud, things passed around the table with no warning.

Fisher asks if he can have wine too, and I say, “When you can reach the faucet without a stool, we’ll talk.”

Mama stands and starts collecting plates, shooing us all away when we try to help. “You all go on, I’ll handle this.”

Fisher gets up to help anyway, gathering forks and stacking them with both hands. He’s got this delicate way of trying so hard to do things right that sometimes it makes me worry. I have the opposite. I don’t care about pleasing anyone.

Once the table’s cleared, Fisher turns to me, his face serious. “Can I stay at Nana’s tonight? In my room here?”

I give him a look. “Nana probably needs a break from you.”

“Please?” He stretches the word.