Trust

The hours dragged on, but the guys showed no sign of leaving. The diner had turned into their personal clubhouse, voices booming, chairs scraping, pitchers of beer replaced almost as soon as they were drained.

They were already talking about moving onto bars and clubs, and going all night.

Milo leaned back in his seat, head heavy, vision blurring a little, when headlights swept across the diner windows. He recognized that car instantly.

Ethan.

Trying not to draw attention, he pushed himself up from the booth, wobbling slightly as the floor tilted under him.

“Gonna head out,” he muttered, but his teammates were everywhere, leaning across aisles, stumbling toward the counter, shouting over each other. The clamor of laughter and the faint echo of music spilling from the diner speakers followed him as he tried to slip away. It was like wading through a maze of drunken Stormriders.

The bell over the door jingled, and in strode Ethan.

The team erupted in cheers. “Doyle!” Mac bellowed, slam