His shoulders ease just a little.
We get out together, and before I can take more than two steps, the truck pulls in behind us. Nathan hops out first, already grinning, while Matthew follows, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
The front door opens and two little girls burst out.
“Uncle Lang!” they yell together.
Langston laughs, crouching just in time to catch them both as they crash into him. He wraps his arms around them, pretending to stagger.
“There are my Firecrackers,” he says warmly. “You trying to take me out before dinner?”
They giggle and talk over each other, and I feel something soften in my chest watching him with them.
A shorter woman dressed in a Taylor Swift shirt and jeans steps into view behind them, smiling when she sees me. “You must be Sabrina.”
Before I can answer, Matthew pipes up, “She is. And—I met her first.”
Nathan snorts. “Congratulations. Want a medal?”
“I’m serious,” Matthew says, pointing at me. “I helped move her stuff. I’m basically family now.”
Langston shakes his head. “You helped moveboxes.”
“Boxes that belonged to your wife,” Matthew shoots back. “Huge difference.”
“I’m Remi.” She rolls her eyes. She steps forward, pulling me into an easy hug. “Welcome. We’ve been dying to meet you.”
Inside, the house is full—but not overwhelming. Langston’s friends are scattered through the space like this is exactly where they’re meant to be. Laughter, teasing, familiarity.
Langston’s hand finds mine again, grounding.
“I didn’t mean to throw you into this,” he murmurs near my ear.
I squeeze his fingers. “You didn’t.”
Because standing here—watching his friends rib him, his nieces cling to him, seeing how naturally he moves among them—I don’t feel ambushed.
I feel… included.
And that realization sneaks up on me quietly, settling somewhere deep.
This isn’t just his house.
It’s his life.
And somehow, I’ve stepped right into the middle of it without falling apart.
Somehow, I get swept into it.
One minute I’m standing near the kitchen island trying to stay out of the way, and the next there are pizza boxes everywhere, voices overlapping, and someone—Nathan, I think—handing me a plate like I’ve always belonged here.
Pizza.
I glance at the boxes stacked on the counter, the smell filling the house, and I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my mouth. These men—successful, powerful, the kind of people who own boardrooms and skyline views—and they’re arguing about toppings like it’s life or death.
Langston catches my look. “What?” he asks.
“I just didn’t expect… this,” I admit, gesturing vaguely. “Pizza.”
