Page 515 of End Game

Griffin crosses the room and catches the back of his neck. “Bad joke doesn't mean you're in trouble.”

Dex swallows. “I know.”

“Do you?”

A beat.

Then Dex nods.

Griffin squeezes once and releases him.

No lecture.

No you should've answered the alarms.

No list of everything any of us could have done differently.

Just that.

Something hot pricks behind my eyes.

I clear my throat. “I want a shower.”

Micah points upstairs. “Your clothes are on the bed.”

“Actual comfy clothes?”

“The ugly gray pants.”

“They are not ugly.”

“They have a hole in the ass.”

“A small hole.”

Dex perks back up. “This feels medically significant.”

“Shut up.”

His grin returns.

Better.

Thirty minutes later, I come downstairs wearing my ugly gray pants and one of Griffin's old fire-department T-shirts, wet hair, and absolutely no intention of doing anything productive for the rest of the day.

The couch eats me immediately.

I end up tucked against Griffin with Micah's arm along the back cushion behind me, Dex stretched across the opposite end, and Ronan in the chair close enough that the toe of his sock rests against the couch.

Nobody asks how I'm doing.

I love them all very much for that.

Everything is perfect for approximately eleven minutes.

Then Griffin sets his phone down. “So.”

I groan. “I knew this was coming.”