Connor stretches. “I’m never drinking again.”
Declan snorts. “You said that yesterday.”
Misha claps him on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble.
Rhys glances at me. “You good?”
The question is casual.
But the concern beneath it isn’t.
I nod.
“I’m good.”
Another lie.
He studies me for a second longer, then nods back.
We part ways in the terminal.
"See you at the rink tomorrow, Cap," Rhys says, clapping me on the shoulder. "Try to get some actual sleep. You look like you’ve been through a blender."
"Yeah," I mutter. "You too. Give my best to Elara.”
They head toward waiting cars, toward their lives.
I slide into the back of the car waiting for me outside the private terminal, the door closing with a soft, insulated thud that seals out the noise of the guys and the city.
The quiet inside the SUV settles over me like a blanket.
We head north, Manhattan shrinking in the rearview mirror as glass towers give way to trees and wide stretches of green.
The further we drive, the slower everything feels.
Calmer.
By the time we turn onto my street in Westchester, my shoulders have dropped an inch.
The road narrows, framed by tall hedges and old trees that arch overhead like they’re guarding the quiet.
My driveway curves gently away from the street, long enough that the outside world disappears before I even reach the house.
Maples line both sides, their leaves whispering in the breeze, especially in the fall when everything turns gold and copper and the air smells clean.
The house reveals itself slowly.
Glass. Warm stone. Natural wood.
Floor-to-ceiling windows reflect the trees instead of the sky, so from certain angles it almost disappears into the greenery.
Behind the house, the yard opens into a private oasis.
A wide wooden deck wraps around the back, with deep outdoor couches layered in thick cushions and throws.
There’s a built-in fire pit surrounded by low seating.
Beyond that, a rectangular pool sits flush with the stone terrace, the water perfectly still unless the wind disturbs it.
