Behind him, the other man—broad shouldered, hair damp from drizzle—turns his head. His eyes land on me, narrowing slightly. Not unkind, but sharp, observant.
I flinch. My body wants to bolt, but my exhaustion holds me hostage. My legs would never carry me far enough.
Words scrape up my throat, jagged. “I’m… I’m looking for someone.”
The taller man steps closer, slow, like he’s approaching a wild animal that might spook.
“Who, sweetheart?”
My mouth opens. Closes. The name feels dangerous on my tongue, yet I force it out.
“Trey.”
Something flickers between them. The broad one, crosses his arms, scanning me in the shadows. The other—leans a little heavier on his crutch, his gaze softening.
“Why don’t you come out of the rain?” His voice is gentler than I expect. “You’re freezing. You can barely stand. Let’s get you warm, and then we’ll talk.”
I hesitate. My father’s voice hisses in my head, sharp as a whip.
Strangers are vipers. They’ll smile while they sink their teeth in.
But I can’t stop shaking. My clothes cling to me like a second skin, heavy and cold. My lips taste of salt from rain and tears.
He lifts his free hand, palm out, no sudden movement.
“My names Dean, this is my brother, with the old man walking stick, Clay. It’s safe here. Promise.”
Safe.
The word doesn’t exist in my world. Not really. But the way he says it—it doesn’t feel like a trap.
I push myself up, knees wobbling. The bin scrapes as I leave my corner. The men’s eyes sharpen, scanning me, but not with Gideon’s hunger. With concern.
The porch light paints them gold against the drizzle. My steps squelch on the wet path. My arms fold tighter around myself as though I can hide the shaking.
The broad one steps aside, holding the door open. Warmth spills out—soft light, the faint smell of coffee and something sweet.
Crossing the threshold feels like breaking a chain.
Heat wraps around me instantly, shocking after the damp chill outside. My skin prickles. The living room is wide, wood floors creaking beneath my soaked slippers. A fire snaps low in the grate, faint crackle over the sound of rain outside.
I hover near the door, dripping onto the mat, unsure if I’m allowed further.
The broad one, Dean, shuts the door behind me, leaning against it, arms still crossed. He studies me with a look that could strip a soul bare—but there’s no malice in it. Just steady calculation.
Clay, the one with the crutch eases onto a chair, resting his crutch against the arm. His expression is gentler, almost coaxing.
“You want to sit down? Warm up?”
I shake my head. My voice is a whisper.
“I’m not staying. I just… I just need to find him.”
“Trey?” Dean asks. His voice is firm, not unkind.
I nod. My throat aches.
For a beat, silence stretches, heavy with things unsaid. Their gazes meet above me—something silent passing between them. Brotherhood. Agreement.
