ELLA POV
There was peace. Actual, honest peace.
Jason and I were curled up on the couch, my feet on his lap, a half-empty bowl of popcorn between us, and one of those true crime documentaries playing low in the background. I wasn't even listening. I was too busy soaking in the silence. My back didn't hurt for once, my stomach wasn't demanding anything exotic or deep-fried, and Jason was giving my feet a slow, lazy rub like the saint I married.
And then—of course.
The doorbell rang.
I cracked one eye open, sighed, and let my head flop back against the cushion. "Please tell me it's the mailman."
Jason chuckled. "Unless the mailman now knocks with the rhythm of a badly choreographed boy band, I'd say no."
He got up to answer it while I threw a dramatic arm over my eyes.
The second I heard the unmistakable voices—two of them, way too cheery for this hour—I groaned.
"Oh, look who's here," Jason said with a smirk. "Your emotional support buffoons."
