Page 139 of The Next Lie

His mouth moves like he almost smiles. “It’s pancakes, kid.”

The nickname slips out. Everyone hears it. His hands pause on the whisk, then keep going.

I let it pass.

Nash sits at the island with his phone face-down beside him. Shiloh pours fresh coffee, still looking entirely too pleased with the morning. I take a stool because standing feels dramatic and I have used up my quota.

Cal cooks like he has done this a thousand times, because he has. Batter hits the griddle. Butter pops. Blueberries sink into butter-grease circles. The kitchen fills with the soft sounds of breakfast instead of whatever explosion we narrowly avoided.

Then Ever walks in.

He takes in the scene in one sweep: Cal at the stove, Nash seated, Shiloh pouring coffee, me in a new shirt and shorts, a faint coffee crime scene still visible near the sink.

His gaze settles on me, intent and focused.

I know before he moves.

“Oh, Christ on a crutch, don’t—” I say.

He walks straight to me.

“Ever.”

He bends, one hand on the back of my stool, and tongue kisses me.

Steady. Deep. Less performative than Nash, less playful than Shiloh, which somehow makes it worse. His mouth says good morning in a way that makes my spine soften and my fingers curl against the edge of the stool.

Behind us, Cal makes a sound like a man being spiritually sandblasted.

“My eyes,” he says.

Ever pulls back just enough to look at him. “Morning.”

Cal points the spatula at all of us. “I raised one child. One. I am not prepared for a committee.”

Shiloh leans against the counter. “We prefer coalition.”

“No one prefers that,” Cal says.

I press a hand to my face, but I am smiling despite myself. “Can we please not make this worse?”

Nash’s voice is calm. “We should make it clear.”

Cal turns down the burner and faces us. The humor thins.

I don’t like it, but I understand. This was always coming. Maybe not over pancakes. Maybe not with me still tasting Ever on my mouth and Cal holding a spatula like a defensive weapon. But it’s been coming for a while now.

Shiloh sets a mug in front of me. “We don’t need to make it a thing. Reva is with us.”

Cal looks at him, then Nash, then Ever, then me.

“With all of you.”

I lift my chin and take a breath. “Yes.”

He absorbs that.

To his credit, he does not yell. He does not make a crude comment. He doesn’t ask if I have lost my mind, though his expression suggests the question is very close to the surface.