So yeah, I know a little something about a bad moment following you home.
Claire didn’t mean what they think she meant. I’d put money on it. I’d put my whole damn kitchen on it, and the worst part is that she’s been punishing herself harder than anyone else ever could, hiding in that house like if she stays quiet enough, small enough, still enough, the world might finally forget to hate her.
My fingers tighten around the mug.
That doesn’t sit right with me, not one damn bit.
“We can fix that,” I tell Damien.
He’s on the floor now, batting the banana across the tiles.
“Tomorrow. We make gooey chocolate cookies. The ones with the sea salt and the brown butter that everybody loses their minds over. We do the full production. Blinds open, herangle, perfect sight line from her living room window. I want her watching.”
Damien stares up from the banana.
“Then I bring her a plate. Warm. Still gooey. Along with a link to the video so she can eat them while she watches me make them. Full experience.”
He squeaks.
“I know. I’m a genius.”
I take another sip of coffee, watching her settle deeper beneath the blanket. Every part of me wants to cross the yard, knock on her door, and see what she does when I’m standing close enough for her to smell me.
But I don’t.
Because Claire isn’t the kind of woman you rush. She’s skittish in a way that pisses me off, because nobody becomes that careful without someone teaching them the world bites.
The problem is that doing it now, while it’s still just me, is preferred, because once Corey and Jakob arrive home, subtlety is dead. Corey will take one look at her, grin like he’s just found trouble gift-wrapped in glasses, and say something filthy before his brain has even clocked in for the day. Jakob will be worse in a quieter way. He’ll stand there all calm and steady, say five words in that low voice of his, and somehow make her feel safer than a locked door.
Then that’s it. We’re done.
Once Corey and Jakob meet her, this quiet little spark I’ve been trying to handle carefully is going to turn into a house fire.
That’s the pack, and that’s how we work. We don’t do half measures, and when something matters, we all feel it. But right now, in this quiet, with her living room softly glowing through the dark, she’s mine to figure out for a little longer.
My phone buzzes on the counter, and I drag myself away from the window. Corey’s name flashes on the screen.
“Finally,” I answer. “Thought you’d forgotten my number.”
“Impossible.” Corey sounds exhausted, amused, and smug all at once, which is his natural state. “You text me fourteen times a day. I know your number better than my own bank PIN, which is concerning because you send me photos of kitchen tiles and Damien’s crimes.”
“He’s settling in. He knocked one vase off the mantel.”
“And?”
“Scratched the banister.”
“And?”
I glance toward the fruit bowl, where Damien is sitting on two bruised bananas like a furry dictator. “Possibly violated some fruit.”
Corey laughs. “Sounds like home. How’s the house?”
“Perfect. Two ovens. Good light. Big kitchen. Neighbors mostly keep to themselves.”
“Mostly,” he says, dragging the word out.
I close my eyes. “Don’t start.”