Page 441 of End Game

Griffin and I are on the floor in front of them, my back resting against his chest and his legs framing mine. Every so often, without looking away from the movie, Dex reaches into the popcorn bowl and offers me a handful over my shoulder. Ronan has claimed the armchair beside the couch with one ankle propped over his knee, looking like the only person in the room who understands the intended use of furniture.

The whole thing feels almost aggressively domestic.

Which would probably be more convincing if Griffin's hand hadn't been under my shirt for the last twenty minutes.

Not doing anything particularly sexual.

Just warm against my stomach, thumb moving absent circles over my skin while some action movie none of us is actually following destroys another historically significant European building.

Dex points toward the television. “That guy's dead.”

“He's on the poster,” Griffin says behind me.

“Marketing lies.”

I feel Griffin's laugh against my back before I hear it, and something soft moves through me.

This.

I like this.

Dex has been home long enough now that Chicago isn't dominating every conversation. He's back at the bar for his normal shifts. Grave Intentions has shows on the calendar again. There are demos and songwriting emails and people Austin Fletcher knows apparently contacting him, like Dex has always belonged in that particular universe.

He still talks about Chicago.

A lot.

Because he is Dex.

But he doesn't look like somebody trying to decide which life he has to choose anymore.

He just looks like himself.

He looks like home.

I look up as Micah's fingers drag lightly over Dex's scalp.

Dex's eyes close.

His whole face softens for approximately three seconds.

Then he ruins it. “You know what I was thinking about today?”

“No,” Micah says.

Dex opens one eye. “Rude.”

“Usually safer.”

His head turns in Micah's lap until he's looking directly at me. “Dollface.”

“No.”

“I haven't said anything.”

“You called me Dollface in that voice.”

“What voice?”