Margo leaned into him once that arm snaked around her waist, and tried not to show her relief. They hadn’t really talked about everything that had happened in Fillory beyond that one time, and no matter how well she hid it, it still buzzed in the back of her mind. Reminding her that they’d hurt each other, that they’d almost destroyed something beautiful.

But Eliot’s arm sat against her back. Not everything was fucked.

“I like it,” she said. “And we’re going to need more seating if we’re going to have parties in here. . .”

The last party they’d tried to throw had been Eliot’s wedding, right before the rattus interruptus. She hoped to leave that behind them.