My cheeks heat. “Good. Because I snore. Loudly.”
“Noted,” he replies, turning toward the kitchen with the calm of a man entirely unbothered by bringing a strange woman home from an auction.
A strange woman who’s already making herself at home in his meticulously ordered space. A strange woman who can’t sit still, talks too much, and hasn’t stopped fidgeting since she got out of the truck. And he doesn’t seem to mind.
I stand there for a moment, listening to the crackling fire and the quiet.
The silence should be overwhelming. Usually, it amplifies my thoughts, filling the space with worries, lists, and things I forgotto do. But this quiet is different. It feels soft, like a blanket, rather than a vacuum.
Tex appears in the kitchen doorway. “I’ll take that.”
“I can carry my own bag.”
“I know.” He takes it anyway.
I could protest, but I don’t.
I follow him down the hallway. The bedroom on the right is simple: a wooden-framed bed with a flannel duvet, a small dresser, and a window overlooking a snow-covered field. A quilt is neatly folded at the foot of the bed, as if someone expects me to feel cold.
“Is the heat okay?” Tex asks from the doorway.
“Yeah, it’s perfect.”
He nods and sets my bag on the bed. “Let me know if you need anythin’ adjusted.”
There it is again—the asking, the checking. My brothers adjust things without asking. Tex asks first. That difference matters more than I can explain.
I stand there, duffel in hand, and swallow hard.
This is real. I’m not storming out for dramatic effect. This is me being somewhere else. Without my brothers. Without the noise. Without anyone who knows my bad habits, childhood messes, and moods.
A quiet ache blooms in my chest, sharp and unexpected. I ignore it, like I ignore most things that feel too close to the truth.
I dump my bag on the bed, unzip it, and pull out a change of clothes, a toothbrush, and the little makeup pouch I rarely use. My phone feels heavy in my hand as I take it out.
The screen lights up almost immediately with messages in our group chat.
Cutter Clan
Caleb:You okay?
Weston:Blink twice if you're in danger.
Boone:She can't blink. It's a phone, dumbass.
Weston:Then blink spiritually.
Caleb:Jane.
That one word without punctuation or an emoji tightens something sharp and sudden in my chest.
I type back, my thumb hovering just long enough to feel the weight of it.
Jane:I'm okay. I promise.
Three dots appear, vanish, then reappear.
Weston:That’s exactly what someone in danger would say.
