Page 138 of Well That Happened

His eyes don’t leave Caleb’s.

“I can tell you one thing,” he says, voice low. “I don’t fucking like it. Ri’s all I’ve got in this world.”

The words land like a punch.

Hard. Heavy.

My throat goes tight.

Because for all his protectiveness, all his bluster—underneath it, Fletcher’s just a guy who’s lost too much already. A decent childhood. Hockey. His college scholarship. Most of his friends… And I’m the only piece he’s still holding onto.

I reach over and rest my hand on his arm. “I know,” I whisper. “I’m still yours, Fletch. You’re still mine.”

He doesn’t say anything.

Just exhales slow, like he’s trying to unclench from the inside out.

Hunter, bless him, mumbles from across the room, “Told you this was a bad idea.”

Grayson doesn’t speak. Just watches. Eyes sharp. Back straight.

Fletcher rubs his jaw, still glaring at Caleb like he’s working out whether or not murder charges would stick.

“Just promise me,” he finally says, voice tight, “you’re not going to hurt her.”

Caleb nods once. “I swear.”

Fletcher exhales again and leans forward, elbows on knees. Then says, to no one in particular, “I’m gonna need pie and like four drinks before I eventryto unpack this.”

And just like that, the room exhales with him.

But I know better than to celebrate our victory.

Later that night, we end up at Woody’s.

It’s familiar. Loud. Smells like old whiskey and someone’s questionable life choices, which makes it perfect for hiding whatever weird tension is radiating off our group like solar flares.

Fletcher sits across from me and sips a water, eyes sharp and sweeping—cataloging everything, especiallyus.

Caleb’s doing his usual thing: grinning, leaning into every joke, throwing fries at Hunter with reckless glee. “If this doesn’t earn me ‘Boyfriend of the Year,’ I’m filing a complaint.”

Hunter grunts. “You’re lucky I don’t pour ranch in your lap.”

Grayson, sitting to my right, watches the exchange with a quiet smile, fingers idly spinning a toothpick between his knuckles. He hasn’t said much, but every once in a while, I feel his knee bump against mine—just enough to make me wonder if it’s on purpose. With Grayson, you never really know until youdo.

And then there’s Hunter. On my other side.

His hand finds my knee under the table like it’s magnetic. At first, just resting there. Then a slow sweep of his thumb over the inside, subtle. But notaccidental.

My breath catches.

Fletcher’s eyes snap to me.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” I croak.

Hunter’s hand pauses. Lingers.

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