"You missed warmups because you were hiding from Coach," Ash corrected from three seats down.
"I was not hiding. I was—"
"Hiding," the entire table said in unison.
Max clutched his heart. "Betrayed by my own family."
Cinder laughed—a real laugh, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made his whole body shake slightly. I felt the vibration of it through the bench we shared, and my dragon settled deeper into something content and humming.
"Is it always like this?" Cinder asked me, leaning close enough that his breath warmed my ear.
"Pretty much. Worse on game days."
"How is that possible?"
"Seph once bet Ember he couldn't eat an entire wheel of brie before puck drop. Ember won. The locker room paid the price."
Cinder's face contorted with professional horror. "Please tell me someone intervened."
"Nancy tried. Ember locked himself in the bathroom."
"That's—" He shook his head, but he was smiling. "That's a health code violation."
"It was a war crime," I agreed. "But he scored a hat trick, so no one complained."
The food arrived in waves—platters of salmon and steak and roasted vegetables that Seph had clearly ordered for the entire table without consulting anyone. Phoenix was systematically dismantling a bread roll while Cole watched him with an expression so soft it almost hurt to look at. Keegan and Ash had gotten into a heated debate about the true GOAT, and we all agreed with a certain someone's recent political associations, he wasn't worth our discussion. Nancy was holding court at the far end of the table, a glass of red wine in her hand, dispensing wisdom to three rookies who hung on her every word.
It felt like family. The messy, chaotic, too-loud kind that I'd never had and had stopped believing I deserved.
Cinder must have felt it too, because at some point during the main course, his hand found my thigh under the table. Not suggestive—just there. Warm. Anchoring. I covered it with my own, and the cold in my fingers receded just enough that I could feel his pulse against my palm. It was odd, because the longer his hand stayed there, the warmer I became.
"Thank you," he said quietly, almost lost beneath the noise.
"For what?"
"For texting me. For wanting me here." He paused, his thumb tracing a small circle on my leg. "I almost didn't come."
"Why not?"
"Because I keep waiting for the part where I don't belong." He said it simply, like stating a medical fact, and the matter-of-factness of it made my chest ache worse than if he'd shouted.
"You belong," I said. "Here. With me. With all of them." I nodded toward the table, where Tyson had just stolen Max'sdessert and Max was threatening retribution in three languages. "This is yours if you want it."
He looked at me then—really looked—and whatever he saw made something behind his eyes soften. "I'm starting to believe that."
"Good." I squeezed his hand. "Because I'm not letting you leave."
"Possessive."
"Protective."
"Same thing, coming from you."
I grinned, and he grinned back, and for a few perfect minutes the world was just this—candlelight and laughter and the warmth of his hand beneath mine.
Dessert had barely arrived when the noise level shifted.
Not inside the room. Outside it. A commotion at the front of the restaurant, raised voices, the sharp staccato of shoes on hardwood moving too fast. My dragon snapped to attention before my brain caught up, the cold coiling tight in my chest like a spring being compressed.