Specifically, the yard outside it.
Newt was out there with Harlow, washing down the trucks, a job that required, at most, a hose, two sponges, and maybefifteen minutes of adult supervision. Instead, it had devolved into a war game of splash damage and tactical retreat.
Harlow soaked Newt from head to toe in under a minute. The white t-shirt he wore was instantly transparent, clinging to his ribs, his spine, the flat of his stomach where it bunched and showed the triangle of skin at the waistband.
I watched the outline of every muscle as he ducked and twisted, laughing so hard he almost dropped the hose. He was so goddamn pretty it hurt. That thought alone should have made me stop, but I couldn't. I stood at the window, jaw clenched, eyes locked.
Every time he moved, the shirt molded to him like a second skin. The sun made his hair look gold instead of strawberry. He was thin, but not breakable. Not anymore.
I wanted to see how hard I could push before he begged me to stop.
Harlow was oblivious, happy to have a playmate who didn't treat him like a burden. He drenched himself as much as Newt, water streaming off his beard and pooling at his feet.
The two of them wrestled over the hose, each trying to outflank the other. The noise they made—shouts, shrieks, laughter—echoed through the yard, up the walls, into my skull.
It was the laughter that finally did me in.
I was halfway through sanding a board when Newt let out a sound so pure, so unguarded, that I nearly snapped the maple in half.
That was it. I was done. Game over.
Mission parameters: changed.
I set the tools down, wiped my hands, and crossed the yard in five deliberate strides. I didn't run. I didn't need to. The moment I was in range, both of them froze.
Newt looked at me, water running in rivulets down his chest, t-shirt stuck to his skin, breath coming fast. His eyes were wild, bright, a challenge written in blue.
Harlow blinked, then smiled, thinking I was there to join in.
I wasn't.
I grabbed Newt by the wrist, ignoring his yelp of surprise, and hauled him close. He struggled, but not to get away—he just wanted to know how far I'd take it.
I took it all the way.
I wrapped one arm around his waist and lifted him, easy, his legs dangling. He twisted, laughing, not expecting me to actually throw him over my shoulder like a sack of grain.
"Knox!" he squawked, voice pitching up an octave. "What are you—"
"Quiet," I said.
He went still, just like that. The trust was immediate, total.
I walked him toward the house, ignoring the way he squirmed, ignoring Harlow's confused stare, ignoring the sound of Ransom hooting from the porch.
As I passed, Ransom raised his beer and gave a slow, mocking salute.
Harlow called out, "Where you taking him?"
"Extraction," I said, not stopping.
Harlow frowned, processing, then nodded. "Okay. Bring him back after?"
I didn't answer.
Inside, the house was cool and dark. I didn't stop in the mudroom, just kept going, up the stairs, down the hall to my bedroom. I didn't put him down until we reached the edge of the bed.
Then I tossed him, hard, onto the mattress.
