I squint against it. Raise a hand to block it out.
Only that seems to break the trance, and I blink rapidly against the sight of my front porch.
It’s on the smaller side, the green paint chipping on the groaning boards that need tacked down.
“It’s nice.”
Snapping my gaze into the house, I absently rub at my sternum and step inside where I find Emmett standing in the middle of my living room, eyes darting around the single couch and average sized TV.
The carpet is weighted down. The fireplace needs work. There’s a stain on the ceiling where Hat shot off a Coke cannon and covered the plaster on accident one night. Just as there’s a dent in the hallway wall from a shrink wrap prank that went horribly wrong. Or horribly right, depending on who you ask.
“It’s not much.” I shrug and drop my bag by the door to stack the plate and glass left on the coffee table with an eye roll. “But she’s ours.”
The house holds her scars. The marks of being lived in. The age of her showing with each day.
But she’s exactly what I needed, when I needed it.
“She?” Emmett questions with a furrowed brow, his raspy voice following close behind me as I step into the kitchen and drop the dishes in the sink.
“Yeah,” I murmur with a slight grin. “Some people name cars and shit. See them as beings or things with energy.” I shrug again, turning to face him and leaning back against the countertop.
“Your house has a name? Thehouse.”
Snickering, I tip my chin in affirmation. Push off from my lean. Head back to the living room with Emmett on my heels.
“So does my bike. If I have to drive the truck any longer, it’ll need one, too.”
There’s something akin to a breathy snort that escapes my new friend, and it makes the corner of my lips tip up.
“What, you don’t name shit?” I toss a grin over my shoulder as I speak and toe off my boots next to the couch.
“No.”
A snort works its way past the thickness in my throat.
“Hat thought it was weird at first, too. Now he’s the one naming shit most of the time.”
Emmett just watches me, his brows down low. “Okay.”
He sounds completely unimpressed, not that I blame him, but damn. I have to admit that his indifference stings a little.
Why would he give a shit, Ten? C’mon. He just met you.
Clearing my throat, I turn fully to my guest.
“So … Food or a shower first?” A giant step back is his response and my stomach twists up. “Fuck, that came out wrong.” I swallow, hands out in front of me. “Just trying to figure out what you need, is all.”
“Then ask me that,” he half-snaps with a rasp to his tone that’s got my Spidey-sense tingling.
“Tha—” Nibbling the inside of my cheek, I drop my gaze for a sec. “Shit, you’re right. Direct questions. Got it.”
When I glance back up at him, his eyes are wider. Shining.
Gorgeous.
Something so wounded shouldn’t be so pretty, should it?
The color is just so … unnerving.
