“Not if I can help it.”
“Just my lucky night, then.”
He glances down at my skinned knee. “I’d say the exact opposite. But to each their own.”
I take the chance to inspect his bruised knuckles where they’re lying in his lap. “Yeah, maybe not. What about you? Does this count as a good night or a bad one?”
He bobs a shoulder noncommittally. “Par for the course.”
I have to bite my cheek to stop from grinning. There’s something about the effortlessness he exudes that makes me wild and green with envy. He’s, like, made of Teflon or something. Just cruising through life with zero friction. Even in the middle of that savage fight, it hardly looked like he was trying.
Here, with me, he’s perfectly at ease, as if this is neither the first nor the thousandth time he’s done this.
Sometimes, God
