Page 407 of Primal

She snorts into her drink. “Let me guess. Baby Rattle’s holding a butcher knife?”

“And a bottle. Max said she’s multitasking.” I tip back my beer. “He’s throwing a Halloween party tonight. Couple kids from school, plus that one neighbor he swears isn’t annoying anymore. I left just before the fog machines hit critical mass.”

Payton raises a brow. “You sure we can trust him not to burn the whole place down?”

“He renamed the WiFi to HellFi and tried to hot-glue cobwebs to the ceiling fan. Nearly got stuck up there himself. But yeah—I think the kid can handle it without adult supervision for a few hours.”

She snickers. “Did you dress Gizmo up?”

“Went feral the second we tried to put him in a tiny witch hat.”

“What about Luna?”

“Max wanted to dress her up as Cerberus.”

Payton laughs. “Did it work?”

“One head is wearing a lampshade and the other two fell off.” I watch her pick at a fry. “Stopped by the old house after. Dropped off some Snickers.”

Her smile dims a little. “She home?”

“She was. Answered the door in that same damn robe she wore every year. Took the chocolate. Slammed the door. Didn’t throw anything this time.”

“Sounds like progress.”

“Yeah. Mostly backwards.”

Payton nudges my thigh under the table. “Still. You’re a good son.”

I give her a look. “I bribed a drunk with candy. Let’s not get sentimental.”

“Too late,” she says, popping a fry into her mouth. “We live together. With Max and our furry gremlins. I’m allowed.”

“Speaking of sentimental …” I give her a peck on the lips before sliding out of the booth.

She blinks up at me, all soft eyes and understanding. It’s time. Her palm drags lightly across my thigh as I pass.

The glow of the jukebox washes over me. I slot a quarter in and press the third button from the top.

The intro riff cuts through the static.

Payton’s gaze finds mine. We both know this song. Sweet Child O’ Mine.

We know the hand that should be reaching for the fries right now—the guy grinning around a mouthful of potatoes.

‘If we ever meet up, first round’s on me.’

The fries are criminally salty but good. Just like he said they’d be.

That shitty tattoo stares at me—X-eyed smile, inked in some blackout he never got to explain.

I close my eyes and he’s there at our table.

Wesley, the grinning bastard, mouthing every word.

When I return, Payton clinks her glass against mine. We drink to the empty space between us. To the ghost who bought the first round and never got to finish it.

We drink until the glasses sweat and the song fades.