Page 151 of Well That Happened

“I’m okay,” I whisper.

And I am.

Stretched, ruined, exhausted.

But safe.

And so, so wanted.

Chapter Forty-Three

Rilee

The house is quiet in the best way—warm, settled, humming with comfort.

Hunter sits next to me on the couch, his broad frame half-slouched and completely at ease. One of my legs is stretched across his lap, my foot bare and resting against his thigh while he rubs slow, lazy circles into my instep with his thumb.

It should be distracting.

Itisdistracting.

But it’s also perfect.

I try to focus on my notes, mouthing drug contraindications and side effects to myself under my breath.

Hunter doesn’t say anything. Just keeps rubbing, occasionally glancing down like my foot is a puzzle he’s enjoying solving.

Across the room, Grayson moves around the kitchen with quiet purpose—pulling a bubbling tray of lasagna from the oven, steam curling into the air. The smell alone is making me consider abandoning my flashcards and throwing myself at the first plate I see.

It’s domestic bliss.

Uncomplicated and warm and so far from where we started I can barely believe it’s real.

The last few weeks have been a blur of classes, clinicals, late-night laughter, and so many kisses I’ve lost count. We’ve fallen into a rhythm—messy and imperfect and entirely ours.

The hardest part isn’tbeingwith them.

It’s remembering what it felt like not to be.

Just as I flip to a new flashcard, the front door swings open, and Caleb breezes in, cheeks pink from the cold, arms full of grocery bags and winter air.

“Damn, it smells good in here,” he says, setting the bags down on the table.

Grayson sent him out for garlic bread and a bottle of red wine.

“Well, it’s ready. Come eat,” Grayson calls from the kitchen.

I push off the couch, kissing Hunter once on my way to the table. Caleb slices the loaf of crusty garlic bread and Hunter uncorks the wine and pours four glasses.

Grayson sets the lasagna on the table, wiping his hands. It looks incredible—bubbling cheese and tomato sauce. I wonder briefly if I’ve died and gone to heaven.

While Gray serves us—placing a square of lasagna on each of our plates—Caleb cuts in.

“So…I’ve got a proposition.”

Grayson doesn’t look up from the casserole dish. “Does it involve whipped cream or a trampoline?”

“No,” Caleb says, picking up his fork. “But now I’m putting that on the New Year’s list.” He leans in, eyes bright. “I want you all to come home with me for Christmas.”

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