Page 97 of Top Shelf

“That’s for suggesting I’m not useful,” Lucian taunts.

I cover my mouth, trying to hide the snort that escapes. Ronan shoots me a betrayed look, which only makes me laugh harder.

Hurriedly setting the plates on the table, he sends a death glare in Lucian’s direction. “I’m going to murder you,” he threatens in a growl, which only makes my shoulders shake harder.

“I’m right here,” Lucian coaxes, spreading his arms wide and smirking daringly at Ronan. “Come get me.”

Ronan snarls savagely at him, before turning his back, dismissing him altogether, and fixing me with that incensed stare of his instead. Sucking in a deep breath, he blows it out, slow and steady, like it’s something he does a hundred times a day to stop himself from ripping Lucian’s head off.

My lips twitch at that.

He tilts his head slightly, gaze raking over me like hot coals, before offering me a lopsided smile that’s all Ronan—warm, boyish, just shy of cocky.

“Glad you’re here,” he murmurs.

Three little words. It’s not some grand gesture, but they land as though he were holding a boombox outside my window.

Pulling out the nearest chair, he gestures for me to sit. Silas carries drinks to the table while Lucian grabs silverware with a dramatic sigh, muttering under his breath about being underappreciated. Ronan hands out plates, his hand brushing mine for a fraction of a second longer than necessary as he passes it over.

We settle in at the kitchen table, a warm plate of buttery pasta and golden garlic bread in front of me.

The conversation is easy. Fast. Fluid. They bicker and tease like brothers, but with none of the underlying tension I’d expected. And they pull me into it effortlessly. Every time I think they might move on without me, one of them tosses a comment my way, or nudges my elbow, or rolls their eyes at me when one of the others does something ridiculous.

It’s like I’ve been slotted into place without anyone making a big deal about it. Like I belong here, no permission needed. I hadn’t realized how much I’d been craving this exact thing: a seat at the table. Laughter that includes me. Eyes that see me.

Silas steals garlic bread off Lucian’s plate, who swears loudly before threatening to drown him in the sink, and when he reaches for Ronan’s plate to steal his instead, Ronan slaps his hand away without even looking. Like it’s a nightly occurrence.

It’s a level of comfort born only from habit.

Which leads me to ask, “How long have the three of you known each other?”

“Lucian and I were in Mini-Mites together,” Ronan explains. “Then we met Silas when we moved up to Squirts when we were ten.”

“That long?” I glance between them, trying to picture it. They played too well as a team to have only met in college, but I’d assumed they had met in high school. I never would haveguessed they went so far back. “You’ve basically grown up together.”

Ronan huffs a laugh. “Unfortunately.”

Lucian scoffs. “You were a tiny dictator,” he accuses. “Bossing around six-year-olds like you were coaching the Stanley Cup Final.”

“It’s called natural leadership,” Ronan quips.

Lucian rolls his eyes. “I didn’t realize natural-born leaders cry when they lose a game.”

“I was six!” Ronan cries in outrage. “And admittedly accustomed to getting my own way at that age.”

I grin, turning to Lucian. “I bet you were a little hellion.”

Lucian smirks, as though proud of that descriptor.

“Damn right I was.”

Silas scoffs, writing in his notebook for all of us to see.

He still is.

“Didn’t you bite a kid once?” Ronan asks him.

“You bit a kid?!” I gape at Lucian. “Why am I not surprised?”