I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling and tell myself I’m here because Bethany needed space.
That’s a lie.
I’m here because Brittany’s got nowhere else to go, the club’s too busy to watch her, Holler’s with them tonight, and I don’t like the idea of her sleeping in a house without somebody listening for trouble.
Around one in the morning, I hear it. The soft click of the basement door. Bare feet on stairs.
I sit up without thinking.
She moves quiet, but not quiet enough for a man who grew up listening for police sirens and gun safeties. I hear therefrigerator open. The faint clink of glass. Water running low like she’s ashamed to need it.
I stand and step into the kitchen doorway.
She freezes.
Brittany’s standing there in an oversized T-shirt that probably belongs to Lottie, and therefore Holler, hair loose around her shoulders, glass halfway to her mouth. The fridge light paints her in pale blue, makes her look like a ghost trying to be solid.
For a second, we just stare at each other.
“You scared the hell outta me,” she whispers.
“You move like you’re breaking into your own house,” I say, voice low so I don’t wake Mason.
Her mouth twitches. “I’m breaking into my own life lately.”
That lands heavier than she means it to.
She shuts the fridge with her hip and leans against the counter, arms folding tight like she’s bracing for impact. “I didn’t know you were still up.”
“I wasn’t asleep.”
“Do you ever sleep?”
“Sometimes.”
She studies me in that dim kitchen light like she’s trying to figure out where the cracks are, and whether she can see herself in ’em.
“You and Bethany…” she starts, then trails off.
“Don’t,” I say, not sharp, just tired. “Ain’t worth your breath.”
Her cheeks go pink anyway, like she hates that she asked.
We stand there with the hum of the fridge filling the space between us, the kind of quiet that keeps a person honest whether they want to be or not.
“You okay down there?” I ask finally.
“It’s fine,” she says quick. “Lottie put a space heater in. Mason thinks it’s my secret clubhouse.”
“You ain’t supposed to be in a basement,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
She lifts her chin. “Where am I supposed to be, Oaks?”
I ain’t got an answer that don’t sound like ownership.
So, I change the subject, because I’m good at that when something matters too much. “Royal’s in a mood,” I say.
“That why you’re here.”
