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“Too long,” he says solemnly, crawling toward her on his hands and knees. “I almost wrote you a power ballad called ‘Pedicure Without You.’”
Reese snorts and steps over him like he’s a speed bump. “You are so ridiculous. You missed your calling as a dramatic arts major with too much time and not enough self-respect.”
Thorin flops onto his back and sighs. “God, I missed you.”
“Clearly.”
Fletch sets the guitar down and walks over to me, his eyes softening the second he sees my face.
“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss to my cheek. “You look relaxed.”
“I am,” I say, smiling up at him. “It was… good. Weirdly good. Like I forgot what it feels like to not be in survival mode.”
His thumb skims the inside of my wrist, lingering for a beat. “You deserve that every day.”
I don’t know what to say to that—so I just let the warmth of his words sink in.
Carson swivels in his chair, glaring at Benji like he’s the ghost of every off-key note ever sung. “If I hear one more spontaneous rendition of Let It Go, I will walk into traffic.”
Benji throws a throw pillow at him. “You’re just mad because you felt something.”
“I felt secondhand embarrassment,” Carson deadpans.
“Same thing,” Benji mutters.
Thorin climbs to his feet, dusts off his jeans, and glances between the five of us. “Okay. Proposal.”
Reese eyes him. “If it’s another musical number, I’m out.”
“No.” He waves a hand. “We’re all here. Maggie and Walker still have Eli. The boys are locked in the studio, and I’m starving. Let’s go get dinner in town. My treat.”
Carson raises a brow. “You buying dinner?”
“I said my treat, not my bank account. There’s a difference. I’m making Fletch pay.”
Fletch sighs. “Naturally.”
Benji’s already halfway to the door. “If we leave now, we can hit that burger place with the truffle fries and the milkshakes the size of my dignity.”
“Which is tiny,” Carson says, grabbing his jacket.
I glance at Reese. She shrugs. “Truffle fries and good company? Count me in.”
Fletch turns to me, lips tugging into a quiet grin. “You up for it?”
I nod, the weight in my chest feeling lighter than it has in days. “Yeah,” I whisper. “I really am.”
And as we step out into the dusky Texas twilight, surrounded by music, laughter, and the people who never stopped showing up—I start to believe that maybe, just maybe, I’m allowed to feel joy again.
The place Thorin leads us to is called Charlie’s Smokehouse & Grill, but it might as well be called Holy Hell That Smells Amazing. The moment we walk through the front doors, we’re hit with the thick, smoky perfume of hickory, caramelized onions, and whatever meat wizardry is happening in the kitchen.
Benji inhales dramatically. “I want to bottle this and bathe in it.”
Carson wrinkles his nose. “That’s disgusting.”
“And yet accurate,” Reese murmurs, slipping her arm through Thorin’s as he practically floats toward the hostess stand like it’s the pearly gates.
The waitress seats us in a big corner booth near the back—warm wood, leather cushions, and low lighting that makes everyone look ten percent hotter. Which is rude, because Fletch is already pushing ninety percent and I am trying not to be in love with him right now.
