Two men who look identical but somehow opposite, one broad and watchful, the other quieter, shoulders tense, bracing for impact. A third man trails them, charming smile already deployed, holding a little girl on his hip who is chewing on a pastry.
“Sorry!” the woman calls as Pickle successfully steals a napkin. “We’re here to cause trouble.”
Lani laughs. “You always do, Ivy.”
She finally gets the stroller parked, the triplets seated, and sucks in a breath.
“Sorry for ruining your calm day,” she chuckles. “I know, we’re a bit like a circus. I’m Ivy Fletcher, by the way.”
She gestures behind her.
“These are the Everetts… Mitchell,” she points to the taller twin, who gives me a nod that feels like a character assessment, “and Timothy,” she adds, nodding to the quieter one, who offers a small, shy smile. “And that’s Freddie,” she says, motioning to the charming one. “With Penny.”
The little girl glances up from her screen. “Hi.”
“And obviously the triplets, and my new baby, Allyson.”
“Hi,” I say, smiling despite myself. They might be loud, but damn, they shine bright. Although I don’ttotallyget the dynamics here yet.
“I’m Aurora,” I add. “Nice to meet all of you.”
“Well,” Ivy says decisively, “you look like someone who could use coffee and maybe emotional support.”
Lani snorts. “She’s already halfway there.”
Ivy beams. “Perfect. You’re with us now.”
I blink. “I am?”
She nods as if this is settled. “Absolutely.”
They gather around like it’s instinctual, filling the space with warmth and noise. Pickle knocks over a chair. Timothy rights itwithout comment. Freddie makes Penny laugh. Mitchell scans the room with quiet intensity.
Zane glances over from his table, eyebrows lifting slightly at the sudden crowd, but he gets back to his phone screen, clearly wanting to keep to himself for now.
“The Hollow being sold has everyone buzzing,” Ivy says conversationally once drinks are secured. “Some folks are nervous. New ownership, motorcycle guys…”
“Others are excited,” Freddie adds. “Fresh blood.”
“Town loves something to talk about,” Timothy says quietly.
I nod, keeping my answers careful. “I’ve noticed.”
I try not to say too much. I don’t mention sleeping above the bar. I don’t mention the truck. I don’t mention how none of this was part of the plan.
Somewhere between Pickle stealing a biscotti and Max attempting to climb onto Timothy like he’s a piece of furniture, I start to notice patterns.
At first, it’s just little things.
The way Ivy leans back without looking, and Mitchell’s hand automatically comes up to still her coffee before it spills. The way Freddie shifts Penny onto his other hip so Timothy can tuck a blanket around her legs without anyone saying a word. The way Timothy murmurs something low to Mitchell that makes him soften, just barely, the volume knob on his shoulders turns down.
It’s… comfortable.
My brain does that thing where it quietly lines up evidence without telling my mouth.
They’re a unit.
It clicks.
