I pressed my palm against the cool glass, watching as he loaded his gear into the bed with practiced efficiency. My other hand drifted to the slight swell of my stomach, fingers tracing the tiny curve that had become my constant companion these past months.
Sterling moved with the same careful precision that Burke did—economical, never wasting motion—but where Burke’s movements carried a hint of warmth, Sterling’s were all cold efficiency. Same face, same build, same training, but a world of difference in how they occupied their space.
I hadn’t heard him mention leaving today. Burke was still asleep upstairs, exhausted from the confrontation with Dennis a few weeks ago.
The memory of that morning—waking to the sound of raised voices, watching from the porch as Burke and Sterling subdued the threats with military precision—sent a shiver through me despite the warming kitchen.
But Dennis was in jail now, awaiting trial on multiple charges. The restraining order had been upgraded, and Sheriff Calloway had made it clear that if Dennis violated it again, he’d be looking at serious prison time.
We were safe, at least for now.
I turned from the window, opening the refrigerator to pull out the pitcher of sweet tea I’d made yesterday. Jojo had shownme how to make it the proper way—tea brewed strong, sugar dissolved while it was still hot, then chilled until it was the perfect balance of sweet and refreshing. I added fresh mint from the small pot on the windowsill, the scent sharp and clean as I crushed the leaves between my fingers.
The ice clinked as I filled two tall glasses, condensation immediately forming on the sides in the warm kitchen. I balanced them carefully, one hand steadying my growing belly as I pushed through the screen door with my hip.
The wooden porch boards creaked beneath my weight as I stepped outside. Sterling had finished loading his duffel and now stood with one hand on the truck’s tailgate, gaze fixed on the distant mountains. He didn’t turn when I approached, but I knew he’d tracked my movement from the moment I’d left the house.
Nothing got past Sterling.
“I thought you might want something before you hit the road,” I said, holding out one of the glasses.
He turned then, those cool eyes—so like Burke’s in shape but so different in expression—taking in the offered drink, then my face. For a moment, I thought he might refuse, but then his hand closed around the glass, careful not to touch my fingers.
“Thanks,” he said, the single word falling between us like a stone.
I nodded toward the porch swing. “Got a minute?”
Another pause, then a single nod. We moved to the swing in unison, the metal chains creaking as we settled onto the wooden seat. Sterling sat at the far end, leaving a careful foot of space between us. Not quite touching, but not so far that conversation would be difficult.
The silence stretched between us, not quite uncomfortable but weighted with unspoken words. Above us, a hawk circled lazily, riding the thermal currents with effortless grace. Themorning breeze carried scents of wildflowers and sun-warmed grass, the particular combination that had come to mean home in my mind.
“It’s beautiful here,” I finally said, breaking the silence. “I still can’t believe it’s real sometimes.”
Sterling took a measured sip of his tea, his expression giving nothing away. “It is,” he agreed, his voice neutral.
I studied his profile—the same strong jaw as Burke, the same straight nose, even the same small scar above his right eyebrow. But where Burke’s face was animated, constantly shifting with emotion, Sterling’s remained carefully blank, as if he’d trained himself not to reveal anything he didn’t explicitly choose to share.
“Burke told me you’ve got places to be,” I said carefully. “That your work... takes you all over.”
Another measured sip. “Yes.”
“I know what you do isn’t the kind of thing people talk about,” I continued, watching the hawk dive toward some unseen prey in the distant field. “But I wanted to thank you. For protecting us. For being here when Burke called.”
Sterling’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on his glass. “He’s my brother.”
The simple statement contained multitudes—loyalty, history, the bond that had kept them connected despite the vastly different paths their lives had taken. I nodded, understanding more than he probably thought I did.
“He never stops talking about you, you know,” I said, smiling at the memory of Burke’s stories—Sterling at eight, showing him how to skip stones across the pond behind their house; Sterling at sixteen, teaching him to drive on back country roads; Sterling at twenty-two, pulling him from a burning building in Fallujah. “You’re the reason he’s alive. The reason he’s the man he is.”
Sterling was quiet for so long I thought he might not respond at all. Then, so softly I almost missed it: “He’s the best of us.”
The admission hung in the air between us, weighted with years of shared history and the complicated emotions of siblings who’d chosen different paths but never stopped being family.
“Our house is almost finished,” I said, changing the subject to give him space. “The foundation’s poured, walls are up, roof’s on. Burke and Macon have been working on the interior whenever the weather’s bad.”
I took a sip of my tea, sweet and cool against my tongue. “Your room has the best view of the mountains. East-facing windows, so you get the sunrise. Burke thought you’d like that.”
Sterling turned then, those cool eyes meeting mine directly for perhaps the first time since he’d arrived. “Why?” he asked, the single word containing a universe of questions. Why the room? Why the view? Why me at all?
