The front door creaks open, and I turn just in time to see Damien step inside, his gaze zeroing in on me and Colton like he’s walked into the middle of a crime scene.
“What’s going on?” His voice is low, but there’s an edge to it that makes the hair on my arms rise.
Colton doesn’t even flinch. He pushes off the railing, casual as ever. “Just catching up with an old friend.”
Damien’s eyes flick to me briefly, then back to his brother. “She doesn’t need your brand of catching up.”
“Easy,” Colton says, holding his hands up like Damien’s overreacting. “I was just saying hi.”
“Right,” Damien says flatly. “Because you’ve always been so neighborly.”
Colton’s smile tightens. “Still holding grudges, huh? Some things never change.”
“And some things do,” Damien shoots back. “Like who I let talk to the people I care about.”
The wordcarehangs between us, heavier than it should be.
Colton glances at me, that faint smirk back in place, like he’s won something I don’t understand yet. “Well, I should get going. Big weekend ahead. Don’t work too hard.”
He strolls past Damien without another word, and the door clicks shut behind him.
Damien doesn’t move until the sound of Colton’s car fades down the street. Even then, his jaw is still tight, his eyes fixed on the door like he’s willing it to stay shut.
I step back inside first, the creak of the floorboards sounding too loud in the quiet kitchen. He follows a second later, brushing past me to drop his tool belt on the counter.
“Sorry about that,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.
“You don’t have to apologize for your brother,” I say, even though my pulse is still thrumming from the conversation Colton cornered me into.
“Yeah, I do,” he says, sharper this time. “He’s got a way of… messing with people. I should’ve been here.”
I glance at him, weighing my words. I could tell him. I could tell him that Colton brought up Aaron — that he told me to ask why Damien really left after my brother died.
But the way Damien’s shoulders are set, the way his mouth flattens into a line, tells me he’s not in a place to talk about it.
So I just nod. “He didn’t do anything I couldn’t handle.”
His gaze flicks to mine, like he doesn’t quite believe me but isn’t going to push. “Still… I don’t like him talking to you.”
I pick up the sandpaper again, more to have something to do than because I’m ready to work. “Then let’s get this done so he has less reason to drop by.”
Damien studies me for a moment, something unspoken passing between us, before he grabs his hammer and heads toward the half-finished trim.
Chapter Seventeen
Lyla
The moment Colton’s car disappears down the street, the air in the house shifts. It’s quieter, but not in the way that feels calm — it’s the kind of quiet that hums with the memory of voices raised just low enough to hide the sharp edges.
I go back to the trim in the kitchen, but my hands aren’t in it. My focus keeps sliding to the image of him standing there with Lyla, smiling like he owned the place. Like he had the right.
This house hasn’t been ours for years, not really. It’s been sitting here, empty and collecting dust, like a box of old wounds no one wanted to open. But walking in on him here felt like a trespass — worse than that, like he was dragging all the shit we’ve kept buried right into the middle of something I care about.
I glance at Lyla across the room. She’s sanding again, her head bent, her hair falling forward so I can’t see her face. I don’t like not knowing what he said to her. I don’t like that he got her alone, even for a minute.
And yeah — I’ll admit it — part of me is afraid she’ll believe whatever garbage he decided to feed her.
I drive a nail into the molding harder than I need to, the sound snapping her head up.
