Chapter 6 - Katty
"It's not much," I say, pushing open the front door and flicking on the lights, "but it's home."
I wince as the overhead light reveals the state of my living room. Clothes draped over the arm of the couch, books stacked on the coffee table, a half-empty mug of yesterday's tea sitting on the side table. I'd left in a rush this morning, not expecting company, especially not company in the form of Lilly's intimidating older brother.
"Sorry for the mess," I add, quickly gathering an armful of scattered clothing. "I wasn't exactly planning on houseguests tonight."
Tank steps inside, his large frame making my modest farmhouse seem suddenly smaller. His eyes sweep the room—tactical assessment, I realize, noting exits and entry points before he even thinks about the décor.
"No need to apologize," Lilly yawns, dropping her purse on the entryway table. "You should see my apartment. This is practically a magazine spread compared to my disaster zone."
I toss the armload of clothes into a nearby basket and kick off my boots by the door. "Make yourselves at home. Anyone want tea? Coffee?"
Lilly yawns again, stretching her arms overhead. "Honestly, I'm dead on my feet. That adrenaline crash is no joke."
Looking at her more closely, I can see the exhaustion etched into her face. The confrontation with Dylan, the emotional roller coaster of the day. It's all catching up with her.
"You can take my bed," I offer immediately. "I'll crash on the couch."
"No way," Lilly protests. "I'm not kicking you out of your own bed. The couch is fine for me."
"It's a lumpy old thing," I argue. "And you've had a rough day. I insist."
Tank watches our back-and-forth with quiet amusement, still standing near the door like he's not quite sure of his place in this domestic scene.
"How about I give you both a quick tour," I suggest, "and then we can figure out sleeping arrangements?"
I lead them through the small house—kitchen with its vintage appliances and mismatched mugs, the bathroom with the clawfoot tub I refinished myself, the spare room currently serving as my home office with a fold-out futon.
"Tank, you can take the futon," I say, gesturing to the room. "It's surprisingly comfortable. I crash there sometimes when I'm up late working."
He nods, setting his small duffel bag on the floor beside it. "It's perfect. Thanks."
Finally, we reach my bedroom at the end of the hall. I hesitate before opening the door, suddenly self-conscious. My bedroom has always been more functional than personal—a place to sleep, not much more.
"And this is where you'll be staying," I tell Lilly, pushing open the door.
The room is sparse, just a queen bed with plain navy sheets, a simple wooden nightstand, and a lamp. No pictures on the walls, no knickknacks, no personal touches. It's practical, efficient, and utterly lacking in character.
I see Tank notice this, his eyes taking in the room's emptiness. A flicker of something—recognition, maybe?—crosses his face before his expression returns to neutral.
"It's not exactly HGTV material," I joke weakly, trying to cover my sudden discomfort. "I never really learned how to make a place feel like home. Military brat and all. We moved so often that 'home' was wherever we unpacked our bags that year."
"It's perfect," Lilly says, sitting on the edge of the bed and bouncing slightly. "And the bed feels amazing after the day we've had."
"Bathroom's stocked with fresh towels," I tell her. "And there should be an unused toothbrush in the medicine cabinet."
"You're the best," Lilly says through another yawn. She looks between Tank and me with sudden mischief in her eyes, despite her exhaustion. "You two going to behave yourselves while I sleep?"
"Lilly," Tank warns.
"What?" she asks innocently. "I saw you two on that Ferris wheel. And the hot chocolate thing? Please."
I feel heat creeping up my neck. "Go to sleep, Lil."
"I'm just saying," she continues, clearly enjoying our discomfort, "if you guys want to—"
"Good night, Lilly," Tank cuts her off firmly, though I catch the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
