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“Damn,” he whistles low. “You’re really doing this.”

“Apparently,” I say, voice too wobbly to be casual.

Reese claps her hands once. “Okay, enough with the reunion emotions. I need to sit down. My feet are still mad at me for wearing heels through JFK.”

I lead them into the kitchen, the air thick with the scent of basil and garlic and whatever Kingston’s private chef taught me to fake. The pasta’s already tossed in lemon cream, the bread still warm.

“I made dinner,” I announce like it’s some kind of achievement. Because it is. I cooked while managing tour posts and pre-show countdowns with Penelope’s passive-aggressive texts in the background.

Reese hops onto a barstool and eyes the spread. “Look at you, domestic goddess with a marketing hustle. When do you sleep?”

“I don’t,” I mutter. “But hey, the shows are sold out.”

Thorin grabs a beer from the fridge and twists the cap off without breaking eye contact. “I saw. You’ve been killing it.”

“Penelope’s a nightmare,” I say, pouring myself sparkling water before my brain tricks me into grabbing anything stronger. “But she knows her shit.”

Thorin leans against the counter, forearms bare, tattoo ink peeking out from beneath his shirt sleeve. “You look good here,” he says quietly, then clears his throat like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

Before I can ask what he means, the door opens again.

Kingston walks in, fresh from practice, hair damp and curls unruly beneath his hoodie. His eyes lock on mine, and then scan to Thorin. I see the subtle shift in his posture—nothing threatening, just the quiet awareness of territory and past lives intersecting.

“Hey,” I say, wiping my hands on a dish towel. “Perfect timing. Dinner’s ready.”

He walks straight to me, presses a kiss to my temple like he needs the contact, then turns to Thorin with a polite smile.

“You must be Thorin.”

“Guilty,” Thorin replies, stepping forward and offering his hand. “Thanks for letting us crash here. Place is insane.”

Kingston shakes his hand. “Any friend of Mya’s.”

Reese pipes up from the stool. “Boys, food. Talk later. Mya didn’t make all this so you two could engage in some subtle alpha male staring contest.”

I roll my eyes and start plating. Kingston grabs the garlic bread like it owes him money. Thorin helps Reese pour drinks, the kitchen buzzing with old rhythms and new energy.

While Reese catches me up on Horseshoe Bay gossip—the kind that’s tragic, twisted, or both—Kingston and Thorin move to the living room with their beers, comparing schedules and careers like two men trying to figure out where they overlap without trespassing.

And for once, I don’t feel like I’m stuck in the space between my past and my future.

For once, it all feels okay.

Even if I know it won’t stay that way forever.

By the time the dishes are done and Reese is deep in a giggly FaceTime call with Carson—loudly critiquing his outfit for opening night—I grab a throw blanket and drift toward the terrace. The sliding door’s cracked open just enough to let in the muffled sound of traffic and two low male voices threading through the spring chill.

Thorin and Kingston are standing side by side, facing the skyline. Beers in hand. Body language neutral. The kind of casual that isn’t quite casual—like they’re still figuring out the rules of this new dynamic where they both exist in my life.

I pause in the doorway, arms crossed loosely, my bump stretching the hem of my oversized hoodie.

“You two good out here,” I ask, “or should I bring out sparring gloves and let you settle whatever standoff this is officially?”

Kingston glances over his shoulder, eyes warm. “Just talking.”

Thorin smirks without turning. “Relax, Squish. I’m not here to haze your boyfriend.”

“I’m not squishy,” I argue, even though we both know that’s a lie. “I’m just…overachieving in the belly department.”