And then I see him.
Grayson Bennett.
He’s near the kitchen holding a soda. Tall, broad shoulders, and dark hair that’s a little messy, like he ran his fingers through it and decided “good enough.” His posture is loose but alert—like even standing still, he’s tracking the room. His eyes meet mine, and for half a second, my whole body goes still.
It’s not an attraction like in movies. It’s…awareness. Like my nervous system clocks him and can’t decide if he’s a threat or shelter. Goosebumps rise over my arms. My breath catches. I’ve seen him on TV. I knew what to expect.
I just didn’t expectthis.
“Harlow.”
I blink, and my brother’s voice snaps me out of whatever that was. Kai steps back so I can come in, and I do—carefully, quiet.
“Hey,” Grayson says, clearing his throat. “Welcome. I’m Grayson.” His tone is normal. Not flirty. Not performative. Not the too-cheerful voice people use when they’re trying to prove they’re safe. Just…welcome.
“Hi,” I manage to say.
I kick my shoes off and line them up beside the mat because messy shoes make my brain itch.
Kai opens the fridge and pulls out a water, then holds it up like an option instead of a command.
“Water?” he asks.
My shoulders ease a fraction at the difference.
“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks.”
He presses it into my hand.
Grayson stays where he is, giving me space. He doesn’t fill the silence with useless small talk. He just…lets me exist in the doorway, like I’m not a problem to solve. It’s disorienting.
Before any of us can say anything else, the patio door slides open, and chaos walks in. Weston barrels inside like he pays rent.
“If anyone speaks to me about last night,” he announces, loud enough to rattle my bones, “I will file a lawsuit.”
Kai doesn’t even glance up from the counter he’s wiping. “Weston. Volume.”
Weston spots me and halts mid-stride, grin flashing bright and immediate.
“Oh,” he says, like he found something fun. “Fancy seeing you again, Harlow.”
Kai’s head snaps up. His voice stays calm, but his expression is lethal. “Cooper. Be respectful.”
Weston throws both hands up. “I am the picture of respect.”
Weston steps closer, then visibly checks himself and stops at a polite distance—unexpectedly considerate for someone who speaks like an air horn.
“Hi,” he says, slightly less loud. “Again.”
“Hi,” I reply.
Asher appears behind him.
“Harlow,” he says with a nod. “Good to see you.”
“Thanks,” I say, and I mean it.
Asher’s mouth twitches. “Don’t look terrified. Contrary to what you witnessed last night, we’re mostly house-trained.”
