Page 82 of Priest

We retreat to the kitchen with our laughter trailing behind us and start putting lunch together without talking much. It’s easy with Lila, the quiet. She moves beside me like she’s been in my kitchen for years instead of months, opening drawers without asking, washing produce, sliding plates where I can reach them.

“They seem like good men,” she says after a while.

“I know,” I reply, glancing toward the hallway. “I never really had any problems with any of them. Deacon was always really good to me.”

I say it carefully, looking at her from the corner of my eye.

She freezes for half a second.

Then she keeps chopping like I hadn’t said anything at all.

It tells me more than an answer would.

Through the open doorway, Evan’s voice floats back. “Is this crib supposed to wobble, or is that symbolic?”

Ink mutters something too low to catch.

Nomad answers calmly, “You’re holding the side rail backward.”

“Oh,” Evan says. “That explains a lot about my dating history.”

Ink huffs before he can stop himself.

Evan catches it instantly. “There you are.”

Ink glares toward the doorway. “Don’t.”

“I won’t,” Evan promises, voice sweet as poison candy. “Yet.”

Lila shakes her head, but she’s smiling now, and some of the tension around her mouth has eased. I keep cutting fruit and let myself enjoy the sound of people filling my apartment with noise that doesn’t feel intrusive. That still surprises me.

When we bring lunch in, the room has already changed.

The mural isn’t huge or overworked, just one accent wall coming alive in soft greens and browns. A pale tree line rises from near the baseboard, loose and airy, with branches fading lighter as they reach up the wall. A deer is tucked near the corner, half-hidden enough that a child would notice it after staring for a while. Smaller shapes wait low in the underbrush, gentle little secrets meant to be discovered later.

It’s beautiful.

Priest stands back, watching Nomad paint with a quiet reverence that tightens my throat. There’s pride there, but also something else. Something like gratitude. As if seeing one of his brothers bring softness into this room means more to him than the furniture ever could.

“I can tell you’ve definitely done this before,” I say.

Nomad gives the wall one last careful stroke before looking over. “Babies are easy clients. They don’t ask for revisions.”

Ink smirks from beside the half-built dresser. “Parents do.”

“Parents are why I charge in beer and emotional silence.” Nomad points the brush at him, eyes bright with lazy warning. “Careful, pretty boy. I’ll paint your room next. Something emotionally revealing.”

Evan gasps. “Can I request tasteful shadows and unresolved yearning?”

Ink gives him a look. “Absolutely not.”

“That sounded like a maybe.”

“It was a no.”

“A wounded no,” Evan says, delighted. “There’s a difference.”

We eat together on the floor because every chair is either in the wrong room or covered in something. Sandwiches balance on knees. Lila passes napkins. Evan steals a pickle from my plate and pretends he’s doing it for the baby. Priest sits close enough that I feel him, but far enough that the distance feels chosen instead of strained.