I stared at him, stunned that he’d caught more than my mouth today. “I was going to,” I said, then texted it anyway, fingers flying, the sweet ache low in my body pulsing with each command sent.
When I finished, I set the phone facedown and looked at him. He looked back.
“Ethan,” I said, and my voice was different in my own ears now—warmer, sure, a little wrecked. “Thank you.”
He shook his head like I was ridiculous. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I do,” I said. “I’ll say it every time it’s true.”
His eyes went hot with something I didn’t have the courage to name. “Then we’ll need a lot of time.”
Outside, the rain thickened. Down on East Bay, a storm drain would cough for the first time, then settle into its work. Somewhere, a woman would move her car because of an email I’d written. Somewhere else, a man would scoff and get stuck. The city would do what it always did—pretend it wasn’t vulnerable until it had to admit it was.
Inside, my body had stopped pretending. The flood I’d been holding back for years had come and gone and left me changed. Not softer. Stronger, somehow, for having finally let go. He’d made a map I didn’t know I needed and then laid me over it and taught me how to read.
He came to sit beside me, thigh a warm line against mine. We were quiet for a long minute. Then he reached down and took my hand, threading our fingers like he had against the tile, like he meant to make a habit of it.
“Forward only,” I echoed, surprising myself with the way it fit in my mouth.
He squeezed once. “Forward,” he agreed.
I believed it.
12
ETHAN
The rain tapped against the window, a steady rhythm that should’ve lulled me into sleep, but my mind churned too hard to let it. What had happened in that shower with Natalie felt like a crack in the earth, something deep and uncharted breaking open inside me—something I’d convinced myself I’d never have, never deserved.
She lay curled beside me now, her breathing soft and even between storm calls, her head resting on my shoulder, damp hair fanning across the pillow. She’d drifted off after texting Owen about the latest rain bands, her body warm against mine, trusting in a way that twisted something in my chest.
I couldn’t sleep. My whole world had flipped upside down, and I was still trying to find my footing.
After leaving Montana, I’d become a nomad, drifting from one mission to the next, a life stitched together with orders and solitude. My brothers—Levi, Jacob, Caleb, and the others—kept calling, inviting me back, their voices carrying the echo of the ranch and old memory. But I always found an excuse, another deployment, another job, anything to keep moving.
To their credit, they let me be. They knew what Dad’s departure had done to me, how it had shattered the rock I’d been for them. He’d left one winter, leaving us to fend for ourselves, and I’d stepped into the breach—fifteen years old, already taller than most, holding the family together with calloused hands and stubborn will. Even rocks break, though, and I’d felt the cracks widen with each goodbye.
Now, with Natalie’s weight against me, memories surfaced—good ones, buried under years of grit. Mom laughing as we boys tried to ride the old mare, her voice ringing out when Levi took a tumble, all knees and freckles, only to climb back on with a grin. The first calf we roped together, a clumsy knot of rope and pride, Dad showing us how to tie a fly for the creek, his hands steady as he teased us for the mess. Pancake mornings in the kitchen, batter splattered on the counters, all seven of us talking over each other, Mom dancing with a spatula while Dad hummed off-key. The laughter had filled the room, a sound I hadn’t realized I missed, until now.
Suddenly, I wanted it back—wanted that warmth, that noise, that connection. But why? Was it because of Natalie? Because of what she’d unlocked in me, this longing for something I’d shut away?
I was almost dozing, the weight of those thoughts pulling me under, when a light knock at the front door jolted me awake. Natalie stirred but didn’t wake, her breath steady against my skin.
I eased out from under her, careful not to disturb her, and padded barefoot to the door, the hardwood cool beneath my feet. Peeking through the peephole, I saw a man standing under a black umbrella, the rain sheeting off it in steady streams. He wore a gray suit, plain as could be—nothing flashy, nothing to catch the eye, the kind of outfit that let a man disappear into a crowd.
Why was that my first thought? The unease settled like a stone in my gut.
I opened the door, keeping the chain latched at first, taking him in. Mid-forties, maybe, with a face that didn’t linger in memory—brown hair damp, eyes unremarkable, posture relaxed but alert. The gray suit hung straight, no wrinkles, no flair, just function.
He nodded, his voice calm and measured. "Ethan. Dominion Hall needs you as soon as you can get there."
I unlatched the chain, stepping into the doorway, the rain brushing my bare shoulders. "Why didn’t they call?"
He shrugged, a casual lift of his shoulders, like it was beyond his concern. "Sometimes a personal invite is better."
The words sent a shiver down my spine, a cold thread weaving through the warmth of the house. Was Atlas having me watched? The thought gnawed at me, but I kept my face steady, my voice low. "Who are you?"
"Just the messenger," he said, turning to leave, the umbrella tilting against the rain. Then he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "Ask about your brothers, Caleb and Jacob. They’re in town, too."
