He tugs my hand and we wade deeper into the crowd. Mariah is still lecturing Rumble about proper cookie storage like she is the High Council of Snacks. He nods along with a serious face, then ruins it by winking at me over her shoulder. She catches it and smacks his arm with a dish towel. He yelps, grabs the towel, and the two of them start a tug-of-war that ends with the towel snapping across his stomach and him laughing so hard he wheezes.
“Place your bets,” Leo calls, already pulling bills from his pocket.
“Ten on Mariah,” I say, and a chorus of “same” rises around me.
Spike squeezes my hand, and I look up. His eyes are on me. The pleased look is still there, but it is softer. He looks like a man who took a mountain apart with his bare hands and found a garden on the other side.
“You good?” he asks.
“I am better than good,” I tell him. “I am home.”
We stand like that for a beat, not talking. Then he lifts our joined hands and kisses my knuckles. The rough scrape of his beard catches my skin. It is a small thing. It feels like forever.
Mariah finally yanks the towel out of Rumble’s hands and holds it up like a trophy. He bows, low and ridiculous, then snatches a cookie off her plate and takes a huge bite. She shrieks and chases him through the tables. Everyone cheers.
I laugh and tuck myself under Spike’s arm. The music bumps. Someone starts a new chant and actually gets it right thistime. The women clap along. Someone cries and someone else holds her and no one looks away. We have a long road ahead, but the path finally looks like it leads somewhere worth going.
I tip my face up. “Ready, Spike?”
“Always,” he says again, and the word curls warm in my chest.
We walk forward together, into our people, into the noise, into a night that finally belongs to us.
