“I’ve known you since you were eight, Tiffany. I can hear the manipulation forming before you even open your mouth.”

She stopped mid-step, throwing her hands up in the air. “Unbelievable. I risked my life tonight.”

“For yanking out some girl’s extensions?” I called after her.

“She had it coming!” Tiffany whirled around dramatically. “And I will die on this hill.”

Biting back a laugh, Jamal gestured toward her. “She’s going to die of starvation before she admits she did anything wrong.”

“Then put that on my tombstone,” Tiffany declared, pressing a hand to her chest. “Beverly, write this down: Tiffany Maclay. Lover of fashion. Defender of justice. Died hungry.”

For the first time that night, Blake let out a short, quiet breath that was almost a laugh.

Tiffany beamed. “I knew I could get him to break,” she said smugly, tossing her perfectly curled hair over her shoulder. “It’s called being naturally⁠—”

“Get in the car.” Dad’s voice cut her off.

Tiffany let out a heavy sigh but obediently climbed in.

Dad started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot, gripping the wheel a little tighter than usual.

No one spoke for the first few minutes.

Then Tiffany broke the silence.

“So…” she ventured innocently, “...drive-thru?”

“Tiffany,” Dad warned.

“Okay, okay,” she huffed. “I’ll settle for gas station snacks.”

Jamal shook his head. “Tiff, read the room.”

She crossed her arms. “You know what? I did read the room. The room is full of hungry people who deserve at least a slushie.”

“Christ,” Dad sighed. “I just bailed you out. Can you at least pretend to be remorseful? You’re all a goddamn nightmare.”

Jamal clapped Blake on the back. “Well, you heard the man. We’re his problem now.”

“I am not adopting you, Jamal,” Dad said, shooting him a dry look through the rearview mirror.

“Damn,” Jamal muttered under his breath. “Guess I’ll just have to settle for my actual loving parents who would never let me rot in a holding cell for an hour.”

“Jamal, I let you sit there for twenty minutes.”

“Felt like twenty years, Mr. P.”

“I’m this close,” Dad shot back, pinching his fingers together, “to dumping you all at the nearest bus stop.”

“Wait,” Tiffany said softly, her eyes full of desperation. “Just…just to confirm… The food situation?”

Dad groaned, rubbing his forehead. “Fine.”

She let out a gleeful shriek. “I knew you had a soul, Arthur.”

Blake sat next to me, staring out the window, his face a mask of unreadable silence. I watched the way his fingers flexed, as if his hands still remembered the fight. Before I could second-guess myself, I reached out, slipping my fingers through his.

I swallowed, waiting for him to pull away, to reject the gesture. But he didn’t. Slowly, his fingers curled around mine.