Page 45 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

“Right, but—”

“No buts, Wyatt. She’s fucking staying.”

“Can I get a word in?” he says, sighing.

“Is it a word to agree?”

“Yes.”

“Then—uh, okay?” he falters when he realizes Trick’s already agreed. His voice trails off into another awkward silence.

Trick turns in his seat. He eyes Vin but then rests a hand on the center console inches from her knee.

“It’s not your fault that Brad’s an asshole or that you’re... that you’re here. You’ll stay as long as you need to. Let’s get some food in you. We’ll talk about it when everyone’s recharged.”

Izzy doesn’t reply or bark a retort at the command. She patiently waits for me to exit the vehicle and follows me out.

She doesn’t pause when we get into the kitchen, though.

No, my girl goes on autopilot, collecting sandwich parts and fruit and veggies she already cut up from the fridge. She bustles around the room in a daze, her eyes glassy as the frown barely droops on her face.

Her pace picks up as she grabs items from the pantry and begins frantically laying them out on the counter. Her hands work fast while she arranges everything into a well-composed spread.

Her energy is so off. I don’t usually have female friends, so maybe I’m misreading her, but I can at least recognize when she’s in her stress-shutdown mode.

I place a hand over hers while she’s reaching to neatly stack silverware we don’t need.

“Let me,” I murmur and fold her under my arm.

She watches like an obsession while I carefully organize the utensils.

Trick and Vin don’t wait for an okay. Trick fills a plate with food I assume is hers while the rest of us shuffle her into the dining room we never used before she moved in.

Izzy pushes the food around on her plate with her unnecessary spoon.

Neither of the guys speak, the three of us too cowardly to address the volcano ready to erupt.

“I really need to go,” she whispers.

“Stop saying that,” Trick is quick to retort. “You have nowhere to go.”

Her lips purse, her bottom lip and chin scrunching up.

“I have a place to go—actually, places to go. Not that it seems to matter to you. I am not helpless without you, Patrick Wyatt. I don’t need you to rescue me.”

“I’m not trying to rescue you.”

She scoffs, and he drops his superfluous knife so that it clatters onto the plate in a sharp, tinkling explosion.

“You’re staying because I want you to stay,” he snips.

“I’m not staying because you feel sorry for me.”

“I want you to stay for my own reasons. Don’t assume my motives, and I won’t assume yours.”

“Oh, is that it? You think I muscled my way in to trap the three of you.”

“I didn’t say that,” he grits out. “Why is everyone putting words into my mouth?”

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