You’re all sprawled out on the blanket Mira brought, the one with the bleach stain from last year’s Fourth of July party. Paper plates scattered with crusts and crumpled napkins. A few empty soda cans balancing on the grass like they might tip over any second.

Ryker’s in the middle.

Of course he is.

He’s always the middle of everything without even trying. Legs stretched out, head tipped back, laughing at something Mira said. The silver chain around his neck catches the light from the string bulbs overhead. He looks good. Relaxed. Like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Stella’s tucked against his side like she belongs there. Her hand rests on his arm, fingers tracing lazy patterns against his sleeve. She’s laughing too. Bright. Easy. The kind of laugh that makes people turn their heads.

You’re on his other side. Close enough to feel the warmth coming off him. Close enough to notice the exact millisecond his knee brushes yours.

He doesn’t move it away.