“I’m okay,” he whispers, like he’s convincing himself.
I nod, because this isn’t the moment to argue. It’s the moment to stay.
When he lies back down, there’s no question in my mind that we’re not keeping the distance this time. Frankly, I want him to use me as his anchor as much as I need him as mine.
I curl into his side, my hand resting lightly over his heart. He lays his hand on top, before lacing his fingers with mine.
After a while, his breathing evens out again, deep and steady.
I stay awake longer, listening and watching for signs of another bad dream. Guarding him like he’s mine to protect.
But I’m also learning the shape of this new closeness. We’ve shifted into something we can’t take back—something that shows up. In the quiet, or in the middle of the night. In the aftermath of old ghosts.
Eventually, sleep finds me, too.
And for once, I don’t dream at all.
thirty-five
AIDEN
The truck showsup before noon.
I know it’s them before Chloe does—because I’m the one watching the farm drive like a sentry, coffee gone cold in my hand, and Phoebe coloring on the rug at my feet. The sound carries differently when it’s not farm traffic; it always has.
Like whoever’s coming assumes they belong.
“Chloe,” I call quietly.
She crosses the living room and stands beside me, dish towel slung over her shoulder. When she sees the truck crest the hill, something in her spine straightens. I wouldn’t call it fear, more like role memory. Eldest daughter mode clicking into place.
Just like yesterday.
Mom always joked about birth order, and watching Chloe brace herself now makes me wonder if she was right.
Chloe adjusts the towel like it’s armor, then reaches down and nudges a pair of boots into neater alignment by the door. They were already straight, but it seems like a strong compulsion when it comes to her family.
“Oh,” she says nervously. “They’re early.Great.”
The passenger door swings open first. A tall guy jumps down, baseball cap backwards over dark blonde hair, already squinting at the snow like he’s calculating slope angles. He looks like he belongs on a surfboard, and based on the stories, I peg him as Carter.
The second oldest, built like he lives outside and can’t sit still.
The driver follows more cautiously than his brother. He’s tall, too, but with dark hair like Chloe’s, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets.
That would be Reid.
Phoebe scrambles to her feet and charges the front door.
“Uncle Carter! Uncle Reid!”
Chloe exhales like she’s been holding her breath since they left Texas.
“Game faces,” I murmur, stepping closer, twining my fingers with hers. “We’ve got this.”
She nods once. For a second, I let myself believe it.
The fire in the hearth pops louder than it has all morning, as if the house is bracing for impact, too.
