Page 31

I don’t sleep. I focus on the little sounds instead. The house is old, settling and creaking in places that probably mean nothing. A radiator ticks somewhere down the hall. Footsteps pass my door at six fifteen, too light to be Ryker, too measured to be Noah. It must be Kipton then, pacing like he has somewhere to be and no intention of arriving.

At six thirty, I give up and stand, my knees popping and my neck stiff from holding myself upright even in rest. The shower runs somewhere down the hall. I follow the sound without deciding to, my feet moving on autopilot, the same way I used to navigate my place at night without turning on lights.

The hallway is long, lined with doors I haven’t opened. I count them. Six, including mine and the bathroom. That leaves four rooms for three brothers, which means one is empty or something else. An office. A storage space. The kind of room where men like them keep things they don’t want found.

I don’t open any of them.

Downstairs, the kitchen is warm and bright in a way that feels aggressive. Kipton stands at the counter, his back to me, wearing a dark sweater with the sleeves pushed up. He doesn’t turn when I enter, but his shoulders tighten almost imperceptibly, a man who knows where everyone in a room is without looking.

“Coffee’s made,” he says. “Mugs above the machine.”

I don’t move toward the coffee. I stand in the doorway and watch him load his plate. Its domesticity doesn’t match the man I remember from Halloween. The one who held my jaw and told me I was beautiful like he was accusing me of something.

“You don’t have to cook for me,” I say.

“I’m cooking for myself.” He doesn’t look back. “You’re just also here.”

The lie is obvious and strangely gentle. I heard Noah tell Ryker that Kipton was making breakfast. That was for me. This pretense that it isn’t—that’s for him.

I move to the coffee machine. The mug I pull down is heavy ceramic, white with no decorative design. I fill it and wrap my hands around the warmth, standing at the counter with my back to the room’s center, the same defensive posture I use at the diner during the slow hours when the regulars get too familiar.

Kipton sets a plate on the counter beside me. Eggs, toast, something that might be potatoes. It smells better than anything I’ve eaten in months.

“You need to eat,” he says.

“I need a lot of things.”

He finally looks at me. His eyes are the same pale color I remember, the kind that don’t hide anything because they’ve never needed to. In the morning light, with flour on his sleeve and sleep still marking his face, he looks younger. Less certain. The guilt I saw in him that night is still there, settled into the lines around his mouth like it’s found a home.

“Fawn.” My name in his mouth sounds careful, each letter placed like he’s not sure it belongs there. “What happened that night⁠—”

“Don’t.” I cut him off, sharper than I intended. “Don’t apologize. Don’t explain. I don’t want to hear how you regret it when you’re standing here making me breakfast…make it something more.”

He goes very still. The pan in his hand hovers over the stove, forgotten.

“I’m not trying to make it something else,” he says quietly. “I’m trying to make it…not the only thing.”

The words land weird. Not soft, not forgiving. Just honest in a way that makes my throat tight. I look down at the plate, at the eggs arranged too neatly, at the toast cut into triangles like this is a meal for a child. Like he didn’t know how to cook for an adult he had hurt.

I pick up the fork and eat. Not because I want to but because refusing feels like a continuation of a fight I’m too tired to keep having, and accepting feels like a concession I’m not ready to name.

Kipton returns to the stove. He doesn’t eat with me. Just stands there, watching his own pan, giving me the space to chew and swallow in silence. It’s the most comfortable uncomfortable moment I’ve had with any of them.

The back door opens, and Noah enters, carrying a stack of firewood. He sees me at the counter, and his face does something complicated—surprise, pleasure, something else I don’t have a name for. He drops the wood in a bin by the fireplace and crosses to the coffee machine, pouring a mug without asking if I want more.

“She’s eating,” he says to Kipton, as if he’s checking off a box on a list I haven’t seen.

“She’s sitting near food,” I say. “There’s a difference.”

Noah grins, the easy flash that makes him dangerous. “There’s the girl I remember. All that practical fight in one tiny package.”

“I’m not tiny.”

“You’re not eating, either.” He nods at my plate, where I’ve managed half the eggs and one triangle of toast. “Kipton made that with his own two hands, probably while reciting tax codes or whatever he does for fun. You should finish it.”

“I should do a lot of things.”

“Yeah.” The humor drops from his voice, just enough to let the weight show through. “You should. Starting with not sleeping on the floor.”