Page 58 of Priest

Lila closes her eyes like she’s already tired. “Evan—”

“President biker guy is back,” he continues cheerfully, eyes still on Ink now, openly appraising, “and he brought hunky biker guy with him.”

Ink stiffens beside me.

It’s small. Most people wouldn’t catch it. I do.

Evan leans in a fraction, eyes flicking between me and Ink like the room has handed him a puzzle he’s delighted to solve. “Okay, real quick, are you guys here to say goodbye, or threaten him back to consciousness?”

Ink chokes. Just barely.

I catch that too.

I also catch the way Evan watches Ink for half a second too long before Lila grabs his sleeve.

“Behave,” Lila murmurs, pulling him back a step. “You’re in front of bikers and a coma patient.”

Ink snorts before he can stop himself, then immediately schools his face, but Lila doesn’t miss it. Her eyes cut to him, then to Evan, and whatever she sees makes her tug Evan toward the door faster.

“We’re going to be late.”

Evan lets her pull him, but he looks over his shoulder, flashes a grin, and gives us a small wave like he’s leaving brunch instead of an ICU room. “Bye!”

The door slides shut behind them, and Ink lets out a low, unwanted chuckle.

I glance at him.

He shrugs, unapologetic.

The room goes quiet again, but it’s different now. A little less suffocating, even with Deacon lying there between us and every machine still counting out what his body can do without him awake to argue about it.

Ink stares at him for a long moment. “Man,” he says quietly. “He looks bad.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve never been this worried about a brother,” he adds, voice rougher now. “Not ever.”

I put a hand on his shoulder. “I know.”

We stand there like that for a beat, the machines filling the space where Deacon’s voice should be. Then Ink huffs out a quiet breath, tension cracking just enough for him to smirk.

“Did I ever tell you how I met this idiot?” he asks.

I don’t look away from Deacon. “No. But I’m guessing you’re about to.”

Ink shifts his weight, folding his arms, gaze drifting to the ceiling like he’s rewinding a tape he’s watched too many times. “First deployment. Different units, same forward operating base. I’m fresh out of intel school, still stupid enough to think rules are suggestions. Deac here,” he says, jerking his chin toward the bed, “was already built like a damn tank and had that look on his face like he’d been tired of people since birth.”

I snort despite myself.

“I’m sitting outside the mess, minding my business, trying to crack an encrypted drive that absolutely did not want to be cracked,” Ink continues. “I’ve got my laptop balanced on an ammo crate, wires running everywhere, and I’m trying to keep power through a converter that’s making a sound no piece of equipment should ever make.” His lips twitch. “And then this man walks up, looks over my shoulder, and says, dead serious—”

Ink drops his voice into a perfect imitation of Deacon’s gravel. “‘You’re gonna blow that converter before you crack anything.’”

I glance down at Deacon. Even unconscious, I can hear it.

Ink shakes his head. “Didn’t ask what I was doing. Didn’t introduce himself. Just stood there like he was waiting for me to either die or learn something.”

“What’d you say?” I ask.