Page 91 of Wicked Brutal

“Oh.”

“And because I’m not sleeping on the couch all night hunting little men with you,” I add.

“You don’t have to.”

“Excellent.”

“Walter can.”

Dad points at him. “Now we’re talking.”

Mom sighs and walks back toward the kitchen, and I catch Ally smiling from the other end of the couch.

This is why we’re here. Not because we need to talk about Roman. Not because Dad has information coming from Arthur or because Mom might’ve heard something through one of her sources. For three hours, I don’t want any of that shit. I want this — Ally curled into the corner of my parents’ couch in leggings and one of my sweatshirts, her notebook open across her thighs. Tobias on the rug with enough craft supplies to bankrupt a kindergarten classroom. Dad encouraging whatever insane thing comes out of his mouth. Mom pretending she isn’t listening from the kitchen even though she hasn’t stopped smiling since they got here. Normal. Or as close to normal as any of us seem capable of getting.

I drop onto the couch beside Ally and hook one hand around her ankle. She doesn’t even look up. “What are you writing?”

“Nothing.”

“You’ve been writing nothing for an hour?”

“Yes.”

“Can I read it?”

“No.”

“One page.”

“No.”

“Paragraph?”

“No.”

“Sentence?”

She finally looks at me. “Why?”

“Because I’m supportive.”

“You’re nosy.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Her mouth twitches. I tug gently on her ankle until she uncurls her legs, then pull them across my lap. She lets me, and that’s my favorite part — no glance toward the windows first, no listening for a door opening somewhere behind us, no pulling away because somebody might see my hand slide along her calf. She just settles against the couch and keeps writing while I touch her, because here, for three fucking hours, I’m allowed to be her boyfriend.

I rub my thumb along her ankle. “Seriously. What is it?”

“An idea.”

“For?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Story?”

“Maybe.”