Page 26

"Where are you going?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

"The couch."

I glance at the tiny, Victorian-era abomination in the corner, its delicate wooden frame and stiff, button-tufted cushions looking about as inviting as a medieval torture device. "You are at least six-foot-three, and that couch was very obviously designed for someone’s pet cat."

Theo ignores me. He grabs his pillow, stalks over to it, and—judging by the immediate look of regret on his face—realizes his mistake in real-time.

He tries to stretch out, shifting, adjusting, trying again. His legs dangle completely off the end. His shoulders barely fit between the back cushions. The armrest digs into his spine.

I prop myself up on one elbow, enjoying the show. “How’s that working out for you?”

Theo doesn’t answer right away. He just glares at me, withering, like I am solely responsible for every bad thing that has ever happened to him. Then, with a heavy sigh of resignation, he turns his gaze upward, no doubt contemplating whether suffocating himself with his own pillow would be the better option.

I sigh, long and dramatic. “Just come back to bed, Theo.”

“I’m fine.”

What you are is a petulant toddler, is what I want to say. Instead, I settle for, “You’re not fine. You look like a murder victim someone tried to stuff into a suitcase.”

He doesn’t respond.

There’s only a beat before the quiet snaps with a loud, splintering crack. For one horrifying second, I think something catastrophic has happened.

But no. It’s just the couch deciding it’s had enough of Theo’s structural integrity test.

He barely has time to release a loud, “Fuck!” before the antique chaise gives up on life entirely. The delicate wooden frame groans, then cracks, one of its ornate legs skidding across the floor as the entire thing collapses beneath him. He lands hard, limbs tangled awkwardly, the remains of the chaise tipping sideways like a sinking ship.

In that space of stillness, he just lies there, eyes going unfocused in mute resignation.

I press a hand over my mouth, shoulders shaking. “Blink twice if you’re still alive.”

He doesn’t move. “I’m fine.”

“You sure? Because from here, it looks like you just lost a fight with nineteenth-century craftsmanship.”

When he finally turns his head toward me, his glare could set me on fire.

Begrudgingly, he hauls himself up from the floor, dignity in shambles, and stalks back to the bed, dropping onto it physically pains him.

To be fair, it probably does.

The mattress dips, but neither of us moves toward the center. The space between us is intentionally maintained, like we’ve mutually agreed that even a toe crossing into neutral territory would be an act of war.

“New rule,” he mutters. “A two-foot buffer zone at all times.”

I shift ever so slightly closer just to be an ass. “Oh, come on. I don’t bite.” A beat. “Well. Sometimes I do, but you already know that.”

His eyes snap open, glaring and unimpressed, a wordless threat written all over his stupidly symmetrical face.

I hold up my hands, all innocence. “Fine, fine. Two-foot buffer.”

He closes his eyes again, his entire body radiating exhaustion. Emotional, physical, and specifically me-related. If I’d known my thesis would make him hate me this much, maybe I would’ve chosen a different one.

Probably not, though.

At least he’s here now, willing to forget the past long enough to give us a chance at rewriting the future—to right one of the countless wrongs tied to this family, and maybe mend something between us in the process.

Strictly for closure. Definitely not because I enjoy his company or whatever.