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He slides in beside me, his thigh brushing mine under the table, casual and easy. But it sets off a small firework in my chest anyway.

Menus are passed around. Thorin immediately points to the brisket platter like it personally insulted him. “I want this. With a side of that. And two extra cornbreads.”

Reese snatches the menu out of his hand. “You haven’t even looked at the rest of the options.”

“I don’t need to. I have a spiritual connection with brisket.”

“You have a spiritual connection with your stomach,” Carson mutters, flipping his own menu like he’s deciding whether to eat or critique the typography.

Benji, naturally, orders the messiest thing available—ribs with extra sauce and fries and jalapeño poppers “for the table,” which we all know means for him.

When the server leaves with a scrawled list of enough food to feed a hockey team—and honestly, that’s not far off—the conversation finally settles into something quieter.

Reese sips her sweet tea, then leans forward with that glint in her eye that says she’s about to stir the pot. “Okay. New rule. No one talks about the studio, the NICU, or deadlines tonight.”

Benji fake gasps. “What can we talk about then?”

“Feelings,” Reese deadpans. “And how your tattoo is actually terrible.”

Benji clutches his chest. “You said it was badass!”

“I said it was a bad decision. You just heard what you wanted.”

Laughter ripples around the table, and suddenly I feel it—the warmth of belonging. Of sitting with people who don’t just see you, but get you. Who make space for your grief and still pull you back into the light.

Fletch leans in, his voice just low enough for me to feel it in my neck. “You good?”

I glance at him, at the way his fingers rest lightly on the table between us, like he wants to reach for mine but won’t unless I ask.

“I am,” I say honestly. “Today helped.”

He smiles—soft and a little crooked. “You look lighter.”

“Is that your way of saying I was a moody nightmare before?”

His eyes spark with mischief. “No. That’s my way of saying I like seeing you like this.”

And yeah… I’m a goner.

Just then, the food arrives—massive platters of slow-cooked heaven and more side dishes than anyone needs. The table becomes a battlefield of forks and “pass the cornbread” and “wait, whose brisket is this?” while Carson solemnly declares war on a pile of mac and cheese.

Reese feeds Thorin a bite of her mashed potatoes and then fake-gags when he moans dramatically.

“I swear,” she mutters. “You’re one slow motion camera pan away from being a soap opera character.”

“I contain multitudes,” he says, lips still shining with butter.

Fletch laughs beside me, low and warm, and I think⁠—

Maybe this is what healing looks like.

Not always loud or grand or dramatic.

Sometimes it’s just ribs and sweet tea and people who love you anyway.

Chapter Twenty-Six

FLETCH