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I can’t stop yawning, and I’m pretty sure my eyes are at half-mast as Kingston cleans up the takeout containers, stacking them like he’s playing a quiet game of Tetris. There’s something almost… safe about his space. Masculine, muted, and meticulously tidy, but lacking any trace of another woman. No bobby pins on the sink, no fuzzy pink socks in the corner, no lingering scent of cheap perfume clinging to throw pillows.

I shuffle toward the guest room, dragging my feet like I’m starring in the world’s most pathetic zombie flick, but I pause at the threshold. “Hey, King?”

He glances up, eyes dark and steady. “Yeah?”

“You’re really single?” My voice is scratchy and small, not because I’m fishing, but because I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be alone without it also feeling like being abandoned.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, like he knows what I’m really asking. “We wanted different things.”

Oof.

There’s no dramatic flourish to it. Just fact. Hurt wrapped in calm. That kind of heartbreak that’s already settled in his bones and become background noise. And somehow, that’s worse.

I nod slowly. “Fletch doesn’t want anything to do with me. Or the babies.”

The air crackles. Not loud, not obvious. Just a subtle shift in the weight of the moment. Heavy enough to sink.

“What a sad pair we make,” I murmur, and I don’t mean to sound so damn hollow, but it slips out anyway, brittle and bruised.

Kingston’s eyes soften. Not pity, thank God. I couldn’t take that. Just this quiet understanding that almost breaks me.

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” I add quickly, gesturing around the room. “I mean, I’ll find somewhere. I don’t want to be a burden.”

He steps forward, not close enough to crowd me but close enough to cut off my spiral. “You’re not a burden, Mya. You’re a friend. Friends look out for each other.”

God.

I forgot what that feels like. Being looked after.

He nods toward the counter. “Spare access card’s by the keys. Come and go as you need. I’ve got practice in the morning, but make yourself at home.”

I nod, throat thick. “Thanks.”

“Try to get some sleep,” he says, already retreating, giving me space without making it feel like distance.

I shut the bedroom door behind me and lean against it for a beat too long, like maybe if I stand still enough, I’ll stop spinning. But the ache in my chest doesn’t go anywhere. It pulses with every heartbeat. Fletch’s voice still echoes in my skull. Cold. Detached. Like the past few months meant nothing.

I sit on the edge of the bed, mattress dipping under my weight, and let out a breath that feels stolen. My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I don’t even need to check to know it’s not him.

It never is.

The silence wraps around me, and I lie back, curling onto my side. The sheets are cool against my cheek, the pillow firm and unfamiliar. Everything smells like detergent and something that might be sandalwood, and for a second, I let myself pretend I belong here.

Just for a second.

But sleep doesn’t come easy. Not when your heart’s cracked wide open and you’re in someone else’s home, curled around a future you didn’t ask for.

God help me.

Because I’m not sure anyone else will.

Chapter Four

MYA

The silence is suffocating.

It stretches through the penthouse like a ghost, all cold air and heavy limbs brushing up against me as I shuffle barefoot across the polished floorboards. Kingston’s at practice, and for the first time since I left the ranch, since Fletch and the band stopped being my built-in background noise, I’m alone. Not metaphorically. Not the kind of alone that feels poetic and moody. The kind that crawls beneath your skin and makes your chest feel like a birdcage missing its song.