“Understood.”
“And I sleep in a fortress of pillows.” I reach for the tote of pillows I brought in and start stacking them on my side. “One between the knees, one behind the back, one I hang onto for dear life. Helps with the aches and pains. Don’t judge.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
I pause with a pillow tucked under one arm, eyeing him. “Also, sometimes I wake up talking. Or snoring. Or both. Getting older isn’t exactly a seductive transformation.”
He crosses the room at a casual pace, posture loose but attentive, and rests his shoulder against the doorframe. “I think that’s cute.”
I shake my head, a short, embarrassinglyme,snort escaping before I can stop it. “You’re only saying that because you haven’t heard it in action.”
He smiles, easy and steady, then steps forward and grabs one of my pillows, fluffing it with an exaggerated seriousness. “Well, I guess we’ll both find out soon enough.”
I press the back of my hand to my forehead in mock despair. “You’re not ready.”
He shrugs. “Try me.”
Sliding the pillow onto the bed, he brushes past me in the process. “You’re talking to a man who wears compression socks on long drives and cracks his back every time he gets out of bed. I’ve started stretching before sleep, chasing peak performance in the sport of unconsciousness. So, trust me when I say ourboatslook so similar they might as well be the same.”
I laugh, and it surprises me how good it feels. The tension between my shoulders starts to loosen, inch by inch.
Since our conversation in the truck, my realization grows, strengthens with each passing moment—he gets it. Aging jokes and sleep quirks aside. He accepts my guardedness. The weariness that has built up after years of being the one who holds everything together. The understanding from him makes me think I don’t have to do that with him. I could let go—really let go—with someone.
The idea of dating, of getting close enough to let someone see the raw, uncurated version of me… it’s always felt like a risk I couldn’t afford. But standing here, with him, in this quiethouse tucked away from the world, that risk doesn’t feel quite so terrifying.
Getting intimate again—truly intimate, walls down, breath for breath—doesn’t feel impossible anymore.
It might actually be good.
Really good.
We head back out to the kitchen that glows soft in the overhead light. It’s clean, serene, and warm in a way that doesn’t feel accidental. I halt near the island, eyes drifting over the exposed shelving, the dark slate countertops, the old butcher block built into the cabinetry. Every detail looks custom, handpicked by someone who knew exactly what kind of peace they were trying to build.
“This place is…” I turn slowly, taking it in again. “It’s an escape?”
Hex pours two glasses of water from a filtered carafe chilled in the fridge, then leans against the counter opposite me. “Peace is hard to come by. Took me a long time to afford the kind that doesn’t come with strings attached.”
“Did you grow up in Stillwater Bend?” I ask, curious to learn more about him.
He shakes his head. “No. Town called Red Bluff. About fifteen miles south.”
“Close enough to count, but far enough to keep secrets,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t laugh, just nods.
“I never knew my dad,” he says. “JT’s my half-brother. His dad stuck around for a little while longer than mine, but men never really stayed in our house. My mom had a thing for the wrong ones.”
His jaw tenses, and I know where this is going before he says the name.
“The worst of them, Ned Stauder.”
I set my glass down and lean against the island, facing him.
“She worked at a diner. Waitress. He walked in one night, and said he’d change her life.” He huffs. “He did that alright.”
My heart’s already sinking, but I ask anyway. “How did she die?”
“She OD’d. When I said he orchestrated everything, he had his guys stage the scene so it couldn’t be traced back to him. Cops took one look and wrote her off as a junkie that didn’t matter.” His nostrils flare as if reliving the memory. The injustice. “But she’d never touched anything before him. Not one pill. Not one line.”
