“Y’know,” Pope began, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, his arms crossed tight over his chest, “I have to say I’m just a tad bit uncomfortable with all this…”

His voice had a nervous edge to it, and you could practically feel the tension pulsing in the air like humidity before a storm. Kiara immediately seized the moment, stepping forward with all the righteous fury of someone who knew she was right and wasn’t about to let it slide.

“Thank you!” she snapped, spinning on her heel to face the rest of the group. “Finally! Someone else gets it!”

“When are you ever comfortable?!” John B shot back, the frustration in his voice boiling over. He was sitting stiffly beside Sarah on the arm of the worn-out sofa, his foot bouncing, fingers tapping against his knee like a ticking time bomb. His face was flushed with irritation—not just from Kiara’s accusation, but from the whole damn conversation dragging on longer than it needed to.

You were wedged into the corner of the couch, hip-to-hip with Pope and JJ. JJ, laid-back as ever, had his arm slung lazily around your shoulders, fingers idly playing with the edge of your sleeve. His body was warm against yours, radiating calm in contrast to the chaos unfolding across the room. His expression was amused, eyebrows raised as he watched the argument like it was reality TV.

Kiara stood in front of John B now, hands planted on her hips, chin jutted out defiantly. Her voice cracked like a whip.

“You told us you were gonna cut her off after you got the map!” she spat, gesturing toward Sarah like she was the final piece of evidence in a courtroom drama. “But here you are, playing house with her, while we’re all just supposed to pretend like nothing changed?”

“I don’t know, man,” Pope muttered, trying to keep things light even though his discomfort was palpable. “I rode here on the back of JJ’s bike pretty comfortably!”

JJ chuckled low in his chest, not missing a beat.

“S’true… most relaxed I’ve ever seen him. Guy was practically vibing.”

Pope nodded in agreement, clearly grateful for the momentary deflection from the tension. But John B wasn’t done. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, turning his gaze toward you—his last neutral ground, the only person in the room who hadn’t weighed in yet.

“You comfortable?” he asked, his voice quieter now, eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to gauge your reaction. There was a rawness in his question, like he wasn’t just asking if you were physically fine on the couch. He was asking if you were okay with him—with what he’d done, with the choices he’d made.