Not this.
My head snaps toward him. “Youwhat?”
Wyatt goes still again. His brain is recalculating the whole world.
Marshall stands there, shoulders squared, eyes hard, but there’s a rawness under it. Emotion he’s not used to letting show.
“I like her,” he repeats, more firmly now. “I didn’t plan on saying it like that, but there it is.”
The room is silent except for the faint hum of the fridge and the soft, whispery frog therapy happening in the background.
Wyatt is quiet. “How long?”
Marshall’s jaw flexes. “Long enough.”
I stare at them.
At Wyatt. Whose shock is evident.
At Marshall, who is choosing honesty even though it tastes of blood.
At the candle, sitting there all innocent and honey-warm while it detonates the entire emotional structure of my life.
“This is…” I begin, then stop because words are failing me.
Wyatt supplies one, flat. “A problem. If wealllike her.”
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s the word.”
Marshall looks between us, the tension in his shoulders shifting. “Nobody’s trying to hurt anyone.”
Wyatt’s laugh is bitter this time. “Doesn’t mean it’s not happening.”
My chest tightens. Because he’s right.
Because Abilene didn’t ask for any of this.
Because she’s already dealing with wildfire damage and family secrets. And we’re in my kitchen acting like three idiots who just discovered the concept of yearning.
I drag a hand through my hair, trying to find the joke that will make this easier.
There isn’t one.
So I go honest. “What are we doing?”
Wyatt looks at the candle, then at me. “I don’t know.”
Marshall’s gaze is fixed somewhere past us, staring down a fence line, deciding where the weak point is.
“We figure it out,” he says finally.
“That’s not an answer,” I mutter.
“It’s the only one I’ve got,” Marshall replies.
Wyatt exhales slowly. “We can’t… gang up on her.”
My stomach twists. “No.”
