The drive home was quiet. Denver slid past in late-evening patches of light, traffic thinning as I got closer to the house. I kept both hands on the wheel. I did not check my phone at red lights. I did not think about whether Jace was answering Vanessa or avoiding her, whether Roman had pushed, whether he was overstimulated and pretending not to be, whether he had eaten anything since the airport.
That last one got through.
I gripped the wheel harder and forced my attention back to the road.
The house was dark when I pulled into the driveway. Olivia’s car was gone because Olivia was in Chicago, living a life that made sense on paper and barely touched mine anymore. The porch light had come on automatically. Inside, Tiny began his usual thunderous greeting before I had even opened the door.
He met me in the entryway with the enthusiasm of a creature who believed every absence was a betrayal and every return required full-body forgiveness.
“Hey, big man.”
Tiny shoved his enormous head into my stomach hard enough to make me step back, then sneezed on my shirt.
“Appreciate that.”
He followed me to the kitchen, nails clicking on the floor, leaning his whole weight against my leg every time I stopped moving. I fed him, let him out, brought him back in when he barked atnothing for the benefit of the neighborhood, then stood at the island while he drank water like a horse.
The house felt too large.
Not empty in a dramatic way. Just unused. Clean counters. Mail stacked neatly by the sink. Olivia’s favorite mug in the cabinet, untouched. The couch cushions exactly as I had left them. No suitcase by the stairs. No heels kicked off near the door. No voice calling from another room.
Tiny finished drinking and came to stand beside me, staring up with droopy, expectant eyes.
“You miss him too?” I muttered before I could stop myself.
Tiny wagged once at the tone, then shoved his head under my hand.
I scratched behind his ears.
Him.
Not Olivia. Not my wife. Jace.
Tiny had met Jace twice and treated him like a returning war hero both times. He remembered the hands that scratched under his collar, the restless energy that matched his own, the man who got on the floor in expensive jeans and let a hundred and sixty pounds of mastiff drool against his shoulder.
I remembered too much else.
I showered. Changed into sweats. Heated leftovers and ate standing at the counter because sitting at the table alone felt worse. I checked the team schedule again. Answered Benny. Ignored the urge to open Jace’s contact.
At 10:47, my phone buzzed.
I picked it up before the sound ended.
Jace: Green.
Nothing else.
I stood in the kitchen with the refrigerator humming behind me and Tiny pressed against my shin, and every part of me understood.
Not a greeting.
Not an apology for leaving.
Not a demand.
A report.
A choice.
