Dakota
The house is quiet.Peaceful.
Charlie’s finally asleep, thank goodness, and I’m sitting at the kitchen table with my sketchbook open, pretending that drawing will calm me down.
Spoiler alert: It’s not working.
The lines on the page are shaky, all over the place, and every time I try to focus, my brain drifts straight back to the same thing.
Clint knows.
Those two words keep looping in my head like a bad song I can’t turn off. Clint knows about Charlie. Clint knows the truth.
And I have absolutely no idea what that means now.
I told myself I’d feel better once I got it off my chest, that honesty would fix everything. But the way he looked at me when I said the words, “He’s your son”? Yeah. That image is branded on my brain forever.
Shock, confusion, maybe even a little hurt. And then… nothing. Just silence.
The kind of silence that hits harder than any shouting ever could.
So here I am, sketching like a crazy person, trying not to cry again.Real mature, Dakota. Killing it tonight.
I’m just about to give up and call it when I hear it—tires on gravel.
At first, I think I’m imagining it, but then headlights sweep across the front window, and my stomach drops straight to my knees.
Please don’t be Clint. Please don’t be Clint.
A truck door slams.
Then another.
And another.
Oh, fantastic. It’s not just Clint. It’s a platoon.
There’s a knock, loud enough to make me jump, and I seriously consider hiding under the table. But no, I’m a grown woman. I can handle this.
I think.
I open the door, and yep. I was right.
Clint. Sawyer. And Reid.
All three of them on my porch like it’s some kind of intervention.
For me.
“Uh,” I say brilliantly, because my brain has clearly left the building. “Is this… a meeting I missed an invite for?”
Clint’s eyes meet mine, and wow, they’re stormy tonight, all tense jaw and quiet intensity. He’s still in the same jeans and work shirt from earlier, as if he came straight here after whatever meltdown I caused.
Sawyer’s standing a few steps behind him, calm but watchful, and Reid’s leaning against the railing with his usual cocky smirk, though it looks a little forced.
“Can I come in?” Clint asks.
I hesitate. “Charlie’s asleep.”
