I stared at the condensation dripping down the bottle in my hand. Water pooled at the base, the cardboard take-out bag damp and curling beneath it.
My side of the duplex didn’t feel like home anymore, and maybe it never really had.
At the time, it had felt like enough. Enough space. Enough privacy. Enough for me to pretend I wasn’t still carrying things I hadn’t named yet.
I could never have guessed a chance meeting with Selene in a lonely jazz bar would have turned into mecravingeverything about domestic life with her.
I let out a breath and pushed the beer away, grabbing the blueprints instead.
Selene didn’t need promises or pressure. Instead, I wanted to give her something real that would show them both how I felt.
I wasn’t trying to win her back. I was trying to prove I’d never left.
Wes’s placesat at the edge of town, just past the split in the road where the woods thickened and the lake breeze grew sharper. The house was mostly hidden by towering evergreens, the gravel driveway barely visible from the road. I pulled in slowly, tirescrunching under scattered pine needles, and rolled to a stop in front of a house that didn’t look anything like a man trying to disappear.
It was gorgeous.
Clean lines, weathered cedar, long glass windows that caught the trees like paintings. It was a place you built when you had nothing to prove but wanted everything to feel intentional. Of course it was—Wes Vaughn had always been a genius with his hands.
I shut the car door and climbed the steps. No doorbell. Just a knotted iron knocker shaped like a ship’s anchor. I knocked once. Waited. Nothing.
Knocked again—harder this time. “Wes? It’s me, Austin. Brody’s brother. Come on, man. Open up.”
More seconds passed, until I heard the sound of footsteps, shuffling behind the door, slow and uneven.
The door opened, and Wes looked like someone who’d stepped out of a storm and hadn’t decided whether he wanted to come back inside.
He had an unkempt beard, and the shadows under his eyes made the blue look almost metallic. He leaned slightly to one side, a shift you might not notice unless you were looking for it.
“Austin,” he said flatly. “Didn’t know we had a meeting.”
“We don’t,” I said. “Can I come in?”
Wes hesitated. “Your brother send you?”
I shook my head. “No. I, uh, had a construction question for you.”
His eyes narrowed, but he stepped aside with a grunt.
Inside, the house was exactly what you’d expect from one of Wes Vaughn’s designs—clean lines, rich wood tones, everything crafted with purpose. The bones of the house were perfect.
But the rest? It looked like the man had stopped caring.
Take-out containers were stacked on the kitchen island, most of them half closed, a few buzzing faintly with fruit flies. An abandoned broom leaned against a cabinet, the dustpan still half full. The sink was piled with dishes, some of them clearly from last week.
The entire space felt like it had been built for a life that never arrived. Beautiful and functional on the outside, but hollow in all the places that mattered.
I let the door fall shut behind me and glanced over at Wes, who didn’t seem to notice—or didn’t care that I did.
He wasn’t embarrassed. Just ... resigned, like this was the best it was going to get.
The house smelled like old food and coffee gone cold. Every inch of the place looked lived in and left behind all at once.
“You doing okay, man?” I asked, rubbing a hand across the back of my neck.
Wes stared at me until I shifted my gaze. “Did you need something?”
I cleared my throat and reached for the folder in my coat pocket. “It’s about the house on Cherrytree.”
