The four of them settled around the low-slung coffee table, a temporary island of fragile peace in the eye of a hurricane.
Max and Everly were already halfway through their drinks, their faces scrunched up in a shared, blissful expression of sugary satisfaction as they sipped at the chaotic but delicious mix of sprite, orange juice, and a aggressive squeeze of lemon.
Jeremy, a picture of effortless sophistication, leaned back into the plush cushions of the couch, swirling the amber liquid in his cocktail glass. The ice clinking a soft, rhythmic counterpoint to the silence.
Only Freya remained a tightly wound coil of anxiety, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles were white. She was the one to break the comfortable quiet, her voice a hesitant thread in the plush stillness of the room.
