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Then Lily wakes up full of energy.

“Uh-oh,” Fletcher says, his big hand cradling Noah. “Now we got trouble.”

“I’m afraid so,” June agrees, struggling to manage her hot dog and the wriggling baby in her lap who wants a piece of it.

Like it’s the most natural thing since breathing, Wayne reaches over and takes the baby from her, bouncing Lily on his knee.

Rex leans in and hands her a glow stick.

She’s fascinated by it, but when she spots Lucy, she lets out a delighted squeal and immediately begins smacking Wayne repeatedly in the face with it.

Wayne catches the toy mid-assault, shaking his head in mock disapproval. “See? Such violence in one so young ain’t pretty,” he tells Lucy.

“She likes you,” Lucy says seriously.

“Don’t be fooled by the cuteness,” he warns. “That’s how she traps her victims.” He then proceeds to blow raspberries on the baby’s cheeks, making her shriek with laughter. Everyone else joins in.

Laurel laughs too, throaty and warm, and the sound hits all three of us instantly.

Ashby looks toward her. Briggs looks up from the s’mores, and my chest pulls tight enough to ache.

I decide that complicated doesn’t even begin covering this situation anymore.

Briggs, Ashby, and I have spent days moving around each other easily. Predictably. But now, knowing what we know, every glance we exchange feels loaded with emotions and information we don’t know how to deal with or organize yet.

It makes us more subdued than usual.

Laurel notices too. A while later, when June is talking with Wayne, she finally narrows her eyes toward all three of us and says, “Okay.”

Briggs looks up from helping Lucy toast more marshmallows. “Okay what?”

“You’re acting weird.”

Nobody answers immediately, because, unfortunately, we know she’s correct.

Ashby recovers first. “We’re at a public gathering involving fire and children. Everybody’s acting weird.”

Laurel points toward him. “See, this is what I mean. None of you normally talk like escaped camp counselors.”

“We absolutely do,” I tell her.

She scoffs. “You compared emotional trauma to soup last week.”

“The metaphor has structural integrity.”

Her mouth twitches, then she shakes her head slightly, still trying not to smile too much in public.

The fire throws gold across her face, burnishing her hair, and for one dangerous second, all I can think about is kissing her again. I remember the plane bathroom, her hands shaking afterward, and the way she'd grabbed mine when the turbulence hit, instinct taking over before she could think.

Across the fire, Ashby notices me staring. Something shifts in his expression, subtle but unmistakable, and I recognize it for what it is. He knows exactly where my mind has gone, and he hates that he's there too.

Yeah. Complicated.

Lucy ends up seated between Briggs’s boots eventually, while he helps her construct what she calls “advanced s’more architecture,” which apparently involves potato chips for structural support.

“That feels illegal,” Ashby mutters.

“You fear innovation,” Briggs replies.