Chapter 25
I stand in the kitchen, flour dusting my hands as I knead the dough for poker night.
It clings to my skin and settles into the creases of my knuckles. I press the heel of my palm into the dough, feeling it give, then fold it back over itself.
Press. Fold. Turn.
The motion sinks into my muscles. My body remembers this even when my mind doesn't want to cooperate.
The kitchen smells like vanilla and butter and sugar warming into something soft and familiar. The kind of smell that used to mean game night without qualifiers. Without tension riding underneath.
Eli stands a few feet away, leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee. He's trying not to hover, but I can tell he's watching. Like he's afraid the moment might shatter if he breathes too loudly.
He's the one who asked me to bake tonight.
Like you used to, he'd said earlier, voice gentle. Only if you want to.
I said yes before I could overthink it.
Now he lets me work, offering presence without pressure. His scent is calm—tea and linen and something quietly reassuring—and it helps more than I want to admit.
I portion the dough methodically, rolling it between my palms until each piece feels right, then lining them up on the baking tray with careful spacing. Same size. Same shape. Order where I can find it. Control where I can keep it.
My shoulders ease down a fraction as I work. My breathing evens out. For a few minutes—just a few—my instincts quiet, curling inward instead of scraping restlessly under my skin.
This is what I did before Marie arrived.
This is who I was when baking wasn't a performance or a peace offering. When it was just mine.
The oven hums softly as I slide the first tray inside, heat blooming against my face. I wipe my hands on a towel and reach for the cutting board.
Carrots first. Then celery. Even, precise cuts. I arrange everything neatly on a platter, small bowls of dip placed just so in the center.
That's when I feel it.
Ragon.
I don't turn. I don't have to. His presence announces itself—pine smoke and steel, dominance pulled tight enough that it brushes the edges of my awareness.
He passes the kitchen doorway and slows.
My spine tightens anyway.
I focus harder on the knife in my hand, the steady tap of blade against board.
After a moment, he moves on.
The tension lingers in my shoulders longer than it should.
A few minutes later, he passes again.
This time he stops fully in the doorway. I feel his attention on my back as I transfer cookies to a cooling rack, lining them up in neat rows. My breath goes shallow, muscles pulling tight.
Don't look. Don't engage.
I pretend not to notice him.
He clears his throat quietly—soft enough that it's almost an apology—and steps away.
Eli's eyes flick to the doorway, then back to me. He doesn't say anything, but his scent warms just a little, a quiet reassurance.
I move on to brewing coffee, filling the kitchen with a deeper, richer scent. The house shifts with it, moving from quiet to gathering.
Footsteps approach with less weight this time.
"I swear if you're here to micromanage—"
"I would never," Drake says, already chewing.
I turn just in time to see he's stolen a cookie straight off the tray.
"Drake. Those are for poker night."
He shrugs, entirely unapologetic. "I'm stress-testing them."
"The guys are going to be so disappointed if you eat them all."
He grins, crumbs clinging to his fingers. "That implies I care about their feelings."
I huff and swat at him with the towel. He dodges easily, laughing.
Despite myself, a smile slips out. Small. Real.
Drake notices immediately. His expression softens like he's been waiting for it.
"I missed this," he says quietly. "You baking. Being bossy."
"Someone has to keep you civilized," I reply, nudging him out of the way with my hip.
He leans in, mock-solemn. "For the record, I am being very good."
He steals one more cookie anyway and retreats, laughing when I threaten him with the spatula.
The warmth lingers after he leaves.
***
I balance the trays against my hip and nudge the living room door open with my shoulder.
The room looks different in that way it always does on poker nights—like the house has shrugged off its usual quiet.
The coffee table is cleared and dragged closer to the couch.
Folding chairs are pulled in. A green felt mat covers the surface.
Poker chips sit in bright little towers.
A couple decks of cards are stacked beside them.
The sight hits me somewhere tender and unexpected.
For a second, my instincts hesitate—like they're waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Then someone looks up and grins.
"Vee!"
The warmth in his voice makes my throat tighten.
I set the trays down carefully on the side table, arranging them the way I always do—cookies in the middle, finger foods fanned out.
"Holy shit," Tyler says, eyes going wide. "You baked."
I give a small shrug. "It's poker night."
"It's been poker night," James says, already reaching for a cookie. "But it hasn't been Vee poker night. You haven’t baked in a while."
A couple of them murmur agreement, heads nodding as they snag snacks.
"We missed your treats," Michael says with quiet sincerity.
The words land softly and heavy all at once.
My shoulders loosen a fraction. There's a spot open between Jasper and Tyler, and Jasper pats the cushion with an exaggerated flourish.
"Seat of honor," he declares.
"Seat of victimhood," Tyler counters. "So we can watch her steal our money up close."
I huff a laugh and settle between them. The cushions dip under my weight. The familiarity of being tucked into the group—surrounded by friendly scents and easy voices—makes something in my chest unclench.
Drake drops into his seat with a dramatic sigh, fanning the deck of cards.
"Gentlemen, please keep your hands and emotions inside the ride at all times. I cannot be held responsible for the devastation I am about to cause."
Groans and laughter ripple around the room.
"Don't you have a Hippocratic oath or something?" someone calls.
"I’m a nurse, not a doctor," Drake replies cheerfully. “That’s Eli’s problem. Besides, the oath doesn't cover poker-related injuries."
He deals the first round like he's on stage—cards snapping against the wood, wrists flicking. Every time someone complains, he makes it worse on purpose, smirking.
It's ridiculous.
It's perfect.
Across the table, Eli catches my eye.
It's small—just a glance—but his smile is steady and encouraging. You're doing good, it says. I see you.
I hold his gaze for a heartbeat longer than I should, then look down at my cards.
Chips clack as people ante up. Someone shuffles their stack into a lopsided tower. Someone else knocks theirs over immediately and curses.
"Graceful," Drake says, delighted.
"Shut up."
"That's the spirit."
The banter flows easily. It fills the room like warm water, slipping into spaces that have felt too empty lately.
I realize halfway through the second hand that my shoulders have dropped. That my spine isn't locked tight anymore. That I'm leaning back into the couch instead of perching on the edge.
My laugh comes more easily, too—small at first, then real when Drake makes a terrible pun and someone threatens to throw a chip at his head.
Ragon stays mostly quiet, but he's present.
He's not looming. Not standing like a guard. He sits with the rest of us, broad shoulders relaxed enough to suggest he's trying.
And when it's my turn to ante, he doesn't tell me. Doesn't correct me.
He simply slides a neat stack of chips toward my hand, placing them close enough that I don't have to reach. A small, controlled gesture. An offering instead of an order.
I pretend I don't notice the way my body tenses anyway when his hand gets too close.
I take the chips without looking at him.
Across from me, Marie watches.
She's quiet, her cards held too neatly, her posture stiff. Her gaze keeps flicking—at the way Drake teases me. At the way Eli's eyes keep finding mine. At the way the guys smile like they've known me longer than she's been here.
Because they have.
Each time laughter breaks out, her shoulders tighten a fraction more.
I keep my attention on my hand. On the chips. On anything but the way her scent is starting to sharpen into something brittle.
The game rolls on.
Cards shuffle, the sound soft and steady. Chips clack. The pot grows. Someone groans dramatically when they bust.
"Medic!" Drake calls out.
"I hate you," someone mutters, laughing anyway.
I play a hand carefully, watching faces the way Eli taught me once. When the last card drops, I push in my chips.
A beat of silence.
Then one of the guys lets out a low whistle.
"Oh no. Not again."
I turn over my cards.
Groans, laughter, chips being tossed down in defeat.
"There's our clever girl," one of them says, shaking his head as I rake the pot toward me. "Taking all our money again."
Heat rises in my cheeks, but it's not the sharp, humiliating kind.
It's warm.
Almost happy.
And for a few fragile minutes, it feels like the room is holding me up instead of breaking me down.
The shift is subtle at first.
It happens in the space between hands, when the cards are stacked and someone is reaching for a drink. The room exhales, the noise dipping just enough that silence becomes noticeable.
That's when Marie speaks.
"You guys should have seen how vicious Vee was at the zoo."
Her voice is light. Too light. Wrapped in a brittle little smile.
The words don't register all at once. They hit in pieces—vicious, zoo, my name said aloud in a room full of people.
"She tried to hurt me, you know. Pushed me into the gorilla pen."
My stomach drops so fast it feels like my insides shift.
For a heartbeat, no one reacts. Then one of the hospital guys lets out a short, disbelieving laugh.
"No way. The Vee I know wouldn't do that."
Relief flickers—brief, fragile.
Marie's eyes narrow.