When it’s over, Boone clears the table, and I follow Shepard into the kitchen to wash up. He takes the sponge, I handle the rinse. The work is easy, automatic. My mind isn’t.
She glances in once, smiling at us before drifting back to the living room. Boone stays near her, drying his hands on a towel. By the time Shepard and I finish stacking the last plate, it feels like something has been left unsaid between us.
Boone claps me on the shoulder when I move to leave. “Thanks for coming,” he says simply.
I just nod. Words feel heavy, dangerous.
Sadie hugs Shepard first, then me. My arms close around her automatically, the warmth of her body bleeding straight into my chest. I inhale too deeply, catching the faintest edge of her scent, and let her go before I can embarrass myself.
She smiles, soft and a little tired. “Good night, Gabe.”
“Night,” I mutter. My throat feels dry.
Outside, the door shuts behind me, and I finally let out the breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding. Christ. My shoulders sag. The cool night air helps, but not enough.
“You want to come over?” Shepard’s voice cuts in.
I turn, startled. He’s leaning against the railing, hands in his pockets. His expression is calm, but there’s something deliberate in the way he asks. “I’ve got a bottle of tequila.”
I almost say no. I should. But my head is still a mess, and maybe the last thing I need is to sit alone with it. I nod once. “Yeah. Alright.”
He pulls out two glasses, pours generously, and hands one to me.
We sit at the table, the bottle between us. He raises his glass, almost like a toast, then tips it back. I do the same, the burn biting my throat.
“This is crazy, right?” I say finally, breaking the silence.
Shepard’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “It is.”
I run a hand over my jaw. “She wants us. All of us.”
“Yes.” His voice is steady, but I don’t miss the flicker in his eyes.
“And we already—” I stop, swallow more tequila, grimace at the fire it leaves behind. “We already shared her. That night. In my head, it should’ve been fucked up, but it wasn’t.”
He leans back in his chair, studying me. “It wasn’t.”
The admission hangs between us, heavier than the liquor.
“I keep thinking about it,” I confess. “The way she looked. The way she sounded. And you were right there, and it didn’t feel wrong. It just… was.”
Shepard doesn’t flinch. “Maybe because it’s her.”
“Maybe.” I stare into my glass. “So what, we just… try it out? See if it works?”
He exhales, slow. “That’s what she wants. And I…” He pauses, searching for the words. “I want her, too.”
The knot in my chest tightens, but it isn’t anger. It’s relief. The honesty is bracing, solid.
We talk for what must be half an hour, the tequila loosening our tongues. Shepard admits he’s been distracted, that she lingers in his head more than he wants to admit. I tell him I’ve been fighting instincts I thought I’d buried years ago. Neither of us says it lightly, but neither of us backs away from the truth.
Finally, Shepard sets his glass down, his voice more serious. “We should talk to Boone. He deserves that.”
“Tonight?” I ask.
“It’s late,” he says. “But maybe. If he’s still up.”
I hesitate, then nod. “Let’s just head downstairs. See.”
