He doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch.
Blood beads at the top of his cheekbone and drips down his face, a faint bruise already blooming, but he just looks at me and fuckingsmirks.
He stands, stretching with deliberate slowness. His muscles pull taut, and my eyes roam over every hard inch of him.
He steps into Michael’s room and reappears a moment later fully clothed, then strolls to the door, but as he passes me, he leans in close, his voice a murmur against my ear. “I’ve missed you too, morte mea.”
I slam the door behind him, my pulse racing, my anger a hot, buzzing thing under my skin.
The nerve of him.
The fuckingaudacity.
And yet, as I lean against the wall, trying to steady my breath so I can leave too, one thought refuses to leave my mind:
Why wasn’t he surprised to see me here?
1
COZY OR BUST
KRUZ
I’m lugginga mountain of blankets into Quinn’s living room when I hear her laugh—loud, unfiltered, the kind that always makes me want to laugh too. There’s something comforting about my best friend, especially when I need to forget how the world feels like it’s about to spin off its axis, which is often these days.
“Cozy or bust,” I declare, dropping the pile of blankets onto the couch before flopping down dramatically. The plush cushions swallow me up, and I let out a satisfied sigh. “This is the only way to spend Christmas break.”
Quinn rolls her eyes but smiles at me, already reaching for the bottle of wine. “Honestly, I was afraid you were going to suggest something insane, like hiking.”
“Who do you think I am?” I gasp, clutching a blanket to my chest in mock horror. “Hiking? In December? Please. That’s somethingyou’dsuggest.”
Kronk, her dog, barks from the backyard as if he knows we’re discussing his favorite activity.
“Okay, valid,” she says, pouring the wine. “I just don’t trust your family not to have some spur-of-the-moment bright idea like ice skating at midnight or a Christmas-themed 5K that you beg me to rescue you from.”
“You are not wrong,” I retort, grinning. “Midnight ice skating sounds kind of magical, though.”
“It sounds kind of freezing,” she shoots back, handing me a glass. “Blankets, wine, and snacks are the only correct answers. Plus, I think you earned the rest.”
“I did earn it,” I agree, grabbing a pillow to hug dramatically. “My survival was an act of divine intervention. Finals week was a battlefield, and I barely made it out alive.”
“Pretty sure the only divine intervention you experienced was your caffeine supply,” she quips, smirking as she shoves the cork back into the bottle of wine. “I saw those selfies you sent me. You looked like a cracked-out gremlin.”
“Afashionablecracked-out gremlin,” I correct, pointing a finger at her. “That sweater-leggings combo was on point, and you know it.”
Quinn snorts. “If by ‘on point,’ you mean ‘one coffee mishap away from looking utterly unkempt,’ then sure.”
“Wow,” I say, putting on an expression of mock betrayal. “And here I thought we were best friends. My mistake.”
Her laugh is teasing as she hands me a glass. “We are. That’s why it’s my job to keep you humble.”
I sip from my glass with an eye roll in her direction.
Her husband, Jack, is in the other room, taking care of their little one. Sienna’s barely 20 months old, but she’s a little ball of chaotic energy and sunshine.
I watch Quinn’s face soften as she glances toward the playroom.
Sometimes I think I might want that too, and it’s hard not to daydream about a future in which I’m a mom.
