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His mouth curves at the corners, but it’s not quite a smile. “You look good upright.” And there’s something in his gaze, something heavy and unspoken, that makes my breath catch in my throat.
I sit beside him at the table, tucked under his arm like it’s where I’ve always belonged.
Eli is seated in his high chair next to Reese, cheeks full of mashed sweet potato and a rogue green bean in his curls like a battle medal. He’s babbling to himself, banging one chubby hand against the tray like he’s trying to summon thunder. Reese alternates between offering him spoonfuls of something orange and keeping him from launching his sippy cup into orbit.
The table fills fast—food, drinks, conversation tumbling over each other like puppies chasing the same damn tennis ball. There’s garlic bread that tastes like heaven and pasta that’s too creamy but no one complains, and wine for everyone but me.
I try to follow the thread of the conversation—something about chords and studio acoustics and someone (Benji, I think) blowing out a mic with a dramatic high note—but the thread keeps slipping. I blink too long between bites. The voices swirl, not quite aligning with the names I know.
Fletch notices. Of course he does.
He leans in, his breath warm against my temple. “They’re halfway through the next album,” he says, filling in the blanks like he always used to when I fell behind. “Studio’s been their second home lately.”
My brows lift. “Already?”
Thorin hears me. “Yeah. We got a head start while you were… out.”
That hesitation, that pause before the word, slices right through me.
Out. As if I’d stepped into another life and forgotten how to find the door.
“And the tour?” I ask quietly, not quite sure I want the answer.
Thorin sets down his fork, trading a glance with Reese before he speaks. “We moved it to next year.”
I blink. “You… what?”
Reese reaches for my hand across the table. “Mya, you almost died. We weren’t about to jet off to Europe and leave you behind.”
“But everything was booked. Venues, promo—”
“It’s just dates,” Thorin says. “We’ll play when we’re ready. You’re what matters.”
The room blurs. Just a little. The kind of blur that happens when your heart’s too full and your chest doesn’t know how to hold it all.
“I missed so much,” I whisper, not sure anyone hears.
But of course, Reese does.
“You’re here now. That’s what counts.”
She’s always been the sun, blinding and bold. But tonight, she’s soft glow and steady warmth, grounding me in a way no machine ever could.
“Speaking of being here,” she says brightly, clearly ready to pivot, “we were thinking of doing Christmas lunch at our place.”
Thorin nods. “Yeah. Nothing fancy. Just us and the fam. Mom’s coming up, and we figured she’d drag Walker along too.”
My brain sputters. “Wait—Walker and Maggie are…?”
Carson snorts from across the table. “Oh yeah. Old man Walker and Queen Maggie are totally a thing now.”
“Stop making it weird,” Reese groans, tossing a napkin at him. “They’re happy.”
“They’re doing it,” Carson sings, and the room erupts in groans and snickers.
Eli squeals at the noise, clapping his hands like he’s the guest of honor at the world’s loudest dinner party.
I press a hand to my mouth, laughter bubbling up like soda pop. It tastes like normalcy. Like sunlight after a long, hard frost.
