GRAYSON
The second Harlow leaves, the apartment exhales. Not in an overly dramatic way, but the tension Kai pretends he doesn’t carry loosens, and the room shifts back into what it knows how to be.
Weston is the first one to say it.
“Your sister’s cool,” he announces, mouth full of chips like that’s a qualifying credential.
Kai doesn’t look up from the sink. He’s rinsing something that doesn’t need rinsing. “Good.”
Asher, who is stacking paper plates into a neater pile than they deserve, glances over. “She handled the chaos better than you did last weekend, Cooper.”
Weston points at him. “Hale, you’re allergic to fun.”
Asher’s mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to smile. “No, I’m allergic toyou.”
Weston sighs, like he’s burdened by greatness. “Same thing.”
Kai’s shoulders are still closer to his ears than not. Most wouldn’t notice, but I know him. I’ve lived with him for three years. I’ve watched him block shots with his body and hisemotions with the same stubborn efficiency. He finally turns, eyes sharp but controlled. Captain sharp.
“Everyone out in ten,” Kai says.
Groans erupt.
One guy—Mason, I think—complains, “But the sun is still up.”
Kai’s voice stays level. “And my patience isn’t.”
Weston drops onto the couch like a fallen soldier. “Mercer’s in Dad Mode again.”
Kai lifts his gaze. “You want to test me right now, Cooper?”
Weston raises both hands. “Nope. I’m a model citizen.”
Asher snorts. “That’s a lie.”
I grab a trash bag and start collecting the casualties—crumpled napkins, empty cans, a plate someone left on the arm of the couch, like we live in a barn, and we donotlive in a barn. We live in an apartment that Kai treats like a sanctuary. Everything has a role. Everything has a place. Everything gets cleared out before it can become a problem. It’s not controlling. It’s…Kai.
I dump the first bag by the door and go back for the second when Weston says, “So, Bennett…you gonna tell us why Mercer looked like he was ready to murder you when you talked to her?”
I freeze for half a second—just long enough for my spine to tighten. I recover quickly, because I’m not giving Weston the satisfaction.
“I was being polite,” I say, stacking cups. “There’s a difference.”
Weston’s grin turns feral. “There is not.”
Asher flicks a dish towel at Weston’s chest. “Let it go.”
Weston catches it and clutches it like a wounded lover. “Why are you defending him? He’s got a pen pal.”
“It’s not a pen pal,” I say, because if he keeps calling it that, it becomes something real.
Weston leans forward, delighted. “It’s aforum resource.”
Asher’s gaze shifts to me, calm and steady. “Is it helping?”
“Yes,” I say automatically.
And then I regret it because Weston’s eyes light up like I just handed him gasoline.
