Page 63 of End Game

There are about six different questions in those two words.

“Yeah.”

She keeps studying me.

I smile and brush some of the disaster she calls hair away from her face. “Cami, I’m okay—really.”

Her shoulders relax a fraction. “Good.”

There’s enough satisfaction in the word that I narrow my eyes at her.

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

“That is absolutely something on your face,” she counters.

“I don’t have a something face,” I tease.

“You have approximately four hundred faces. I know all of them.”

Behind me, Ronan laughs quietly.

Cami looks over my shoulder at him.

And I see it.

It’s subtle enough that if I didn’t know every version of Cami, I might miss it. Her expression softens differently when she looks at him now, and something in Ronan’s face changes in response.

It’s not overtly sexual. It’s just familiarity.

A new kind of familiarity that I’m not sure was there when I left on Friday morning.

This is the moment I’ve been wondering about for two days—the part I couldn’t test while I was lying in a bunk room asking myself whether I was really as okay with all this as I thought I was.

Because now I’m looking at it.

Something shifted in them over the last few days, and I can see the evidence right in front of me.

I wait for jealousy.

For the possessive part of me that spent months believing Cami was supposed to be mine and mine alone to rear its ugly head.

It doesn’t.

What I feel is curiosity, relief, and—if I’m being completely fucking honest with myself—enough interest in what happened between them that I’m not examining that particular reaction before I’ve slept.

Cami looks at me. “You need a bed.”

I smile. “Desperately.”

“Come on.” She takes my hand, but before I follow her, my eyes flick to Ronan.

It’s instinctive.

Unfortunately, both of them catch it.

Now all three of us are standing in the kitchen thinking about the thing none of us has actually said out loud this morning.