Opal's POV
The fire danced low in the hearth, casting sleepy golden shadows across the living room. The couches were all occupied—limbs lazily sprawled, blankets messily draped, and one of Ridge's socks mysteriously thrown over a lampshade, likely Forrest's fault. No one was in a rush to clean. For once, they were just… still. Together. Breathing.
Opal sat cross-legged on the middle couch, her legs covered by a throw blanket she suspected had belonged to their mother. She ran her fingers over the fraying corner, steadying herself with the familiar texture.
"I need to tell you guys something," she said, her voice quieter than usual.
Forrest, who had been dramatically lounging upside-down on the recliner with one leg over the armrest like a disrespected Victorian lady, perked up. "If this is about the werewolf-sized hairball I found in the bathroom, I've already named it and given it its own toothbrush."
