Page 96 of What We Become

“I’ve been careful for weeks⁠—”

“And it’s working,” he says. “That’s why it’s working.”

I hate that he’s right. I hate it so much I take a bite of polenta just to have somewhere to put my frustration.

“Two more weeks,” Holden says. “Minimum. Then we reassess.”

“Two weeks,” I repeat. “Of what? Celibacy?”

Milo makes a strangled noise into his wine. “Kitten, you had five men in a hot tub last week, and at least one of us in your bed most nights. Celibacy left this conversation in a helicopter.”

“Oral exists,” Knox says, turning his water glass. “Hands exist. Whole menus that never touch your ribs.”

My breath quickens. “Tell me about them.”

Knox sets his water glass down and leans back. “You. On the table.” He gestures at the space between the polenta and the bread basket like he’s clearing a perimeter. “Hands and mouths only. Nobody moves you. Nobody bends you. You lie there. We do the work.”

Every nerve in my body stands up and volunteers.

“That’s the appetizer,” Eli says, and his voice has dropped into the register that makes my thighs press together under the table.

“Entrée,” Micah says, “is you in the big bed. On your back. Ribs supported with pillows. One of us between your thighs until you forget why you wanted the cross in the first place.” He says it so gentle, it somehow makes it filthier.

“Dessert,” Milo says, hand raised like he’s waiting to be called on, “is me at the foot of the bed providing commentary, color, and emotional support⁠—”

“You’re not narrating,” Holden says.

“I narrate everything. It’s my gift.”

The conversation grows loud and overlapping, punctuated by Milo’s commentary, which is constant and rarely helpful and absolutely essential. For one stretch of time, the world stops existing past the perimeter cameras. There is only the table, the bread passing from hand to hand, Knox’s knee pressed against mine, and Micah leaning over to add more food to my plate while they discuss low-impact group sex.

This is what I want.

Not the hiding or the waiting, and definitely not the threat that brought us here, but this—the domestic mess of them. Holden telling Milo to quit while he’s ahead, then cutting the meat on his plate without a word when the bandages make the knife awkward. Eli pretending not to notice as I take a piece of bread from his plate instead of mine. Knox listening to every word while adding very few of his own. Micah touching my shoulder as he moves behind me because contact has become its own quiet language between us.

The world isn’t safe, and perhaps it never will be, but for one perfect meal it is exactly the size of this table, with everyone I love sitting around it.

A timer goes off upstairs, and Milo shoots to his feet.

“It’s cured.”

TWENTY-TWO

SAGE

Holden lowers his fork. “What’s cured?”

“The solution.” Milo points toward the ceiling. “Everyone upstairs. Master bedroom. Mandatory attendance.”

“We’re in the middle of a discussion,” Eli says.

“Exactly. And the solution to kitten’s low-impact group needs is ready.”

“What’s ready?” Micah asks.

“Technically, it’s a gift for kitten, but in the same way the internet is technically a communications network. We all benefit.”

“That explanation made it worse,” Micah says.