Page 62 of In Stitches with the B!tches
There’s a pause—barely noticeable, but weighted.
“I swear to stop acting like I don’t need anyone, when the truth is, I’d be lost without you. You're the one who drags me back when I start to drown in my own bullshit.”
Brandt looks at him then. Really looks. West shrugs, like it’s no big deal, but his voice gets quieter.
“You’ve had my back through everything. Through the worst of me. So I promise, going forward, I’ll have yours. I’ll show up. I’ll take care of you the way you take care of me. Even when you pretend you don’t need it.”
Then, louder, with a smirk:
“And I willtrynot to hog the blanket. But no promises.”
Brandt lets out a short laugh and rolls his eyes, but there’s something soft in the way he nods.
“Fair enough,” he says. “Is that all?” he asks, hedging for more.
West shrugs, then blows out a big breath, his shoulders sagging. “Fine,” he huffs. “I won’t disconnect the electricity again next time you put Top Gun on.” He drops down in his chair dramatically. “Fuck.”
Brandt’s smile is genuine this time. “Deal.”
Jax gets to his feet and turns to Pharo. “I promise to stop hacking your phone.”
Pharo snorts like he doesn’t believe him.
“I promise to stop calling you old when you put on your reading glasses and ignore me for those stupid mission briefs, and those dusty-ass Reader’s Digest books you think I don’t know are hidden in your closet.”
“My mother gave me those,” Pharo protests in a voice no one challenges with a joke.
“Annnnd… I promise not to put sugar in the gas tank on your bike.”
Pharo pops to his feet, advancing on him. “That was you?”
“No?” Jax backs up a step.
Riggs groans. “Christ. Someone go before they fight again.”
McCormick stands. “Alright, fine. This one’s for Stiles. My emotional support cryptid.”
Stiles flips him off fondly.
“I, Ernest McCormick, hereby pledge to try—try,mind you—to stop hiding your truck keys so you can’t ghost out of events early.”
Snickers from around the circle.
“I also pledge to stop making fun of your weird-ass hobby of organizing our fridge by emotional temperature, whatever the hell that means.”
Stiles: “It makes sense and you know it.”
McCormick ignores him.
“I promise to tell you when something’s wrong instead of throwing a wrench at a wall and hoping you figure it out from context clues.”
Someone coughs “growth” from the back.
“I’ll be your pain-in-the-ass battle buddy whenever you need me. I’ll show up, and I’ll sit through group even though I’ve clearly evolved beyond needing support.”
“Doubtful,” Jax coughs.
“I’ll make you soup when you’re sick, even if you claim it ‘ruins your digestion.’”
