When Ty finally thunders down the stairs—because football players somehow can’t descend the damn stairs like a normal person—I smile without meaning to. I’d recognize that particular rhythm anywhere. Then the door flies open, and his whole face lights up the second he sees me in the kitchen, messing with breakfast like I know what I’m doing.
Fuck, I love that look. I also love it when he’s wearing gray sweatpants… it’s just unfair how they hang low on his hips and stretch perfectly over that nice, thick—
“Ow!Kut!” I yelp, dropping the knife and immediately clutching my hand.
“Cut?” Ty spins around, already reaching for me. He grabs my wrist gently but firmly, inspecting the damage. “Yup. That’s a cut, alright. Fortunately it’s not too deep. I’m sorry my dick distracted you.”
“That’s not—I mean, yes, it’s a cut,” I mutter, letting him manhandle me to the sink. I wince when he flicks the water on and starts rinsing it. “But I saidkut, with aK.”
He gives me a look. “And what the hell is kut with aK?”
“It’s Dutch. It’s nothing.”
“No, now I’m curious.” He bumps my shoulder, then turns off the tap and gently dries my hand with a paper towel. Mr. Caretaker in full force.
“Do you want the literal meaning or the intended one?” I can’t help but grin as he fusses over me. I kinda like it.
“Now you’ve got me confused.”
I smirk, letting Ty, who somehow conjured up a first aid kit like a damn magician, wrap my left index finger. It's gonna be really fun to play the guitar for the next few days.
“It’s a Dutch swear word. Basically meansfuckorshitorgoddammit, I sliced my finger because you’re too hot in those pants.”
Ty laughs, low and warm, while closing the kit. “I’m flattered. And also not even a little sorry.”
“It means vagina, though.”
He blinks. “Wait, you guys swear by yellingvagina?”
“Well, I could’ve gone without that conversation,” says a voice behind me, one that soundswaytoo familiar to be real, anddefinitelyshouldn’t be here in the States.
I see Ty’s eyes going wide, and my heart spikes as I spin around as fast as I can, the cut in my finger long forgotten.
“Dad?”
“Hi, son.” He gives me a soft, slightly crooked smile. An expression that used to be rare, foreign even, when I was a kid. It still throws me sometimes.
But shit, he’s here. In our damn kitchen.How?
Tuck, who obviously let him in, just waves at us from the doorway to the living room and disappears upstairs.
“Jesus, he looks just like you. Or you like him, I guess. This is so weird. You’re gonna behotwhen you’re old. Oh fuck, sorry. That’s also weird,” Tyler mutters behind me, clearly processing out loud and unable to stop himself.
I ignore his rambling. They’ve never met before. Sure, Ty’s been around for plenty of calls, but never when my dad was on screen. I blink at him—atmy dad—who I haven’t seen since last June in LA, when he was busy negotiating some label bullshit.
“What are you doing here?”
He’s smiling like he’s glad to see me, and maybe he is. But I know him. I know that smile. It’s practiced, thin around the edges. It saysthis isn’t just a social call. And even if heishappy to see me, which still feels strange as hell, I can see it in the tightness of his jaw, the slight pull of his shoulders: something’s wrong.
This isn’t a happy visit. I know his tells better than anyone. And he’s carrying something with him.
“I happened to be stateside for business, in LA,” he says, all casual. “Figured I’d swing by, check out the campus, see how you are. And, you know…”
I swallow hard. I already know where this is heading.
“Don’t bullshit me,” I say quietly. “You didn’t just drive two hours from LA because you were in the neighborhood visiting clients. What’s going on? Just say it. Do you have news? Did it get approved?”
My throat tightens, heartbeat kicking up. My palms go clammy. The only thing keeping me from spiraling is Ty’s hand, warm and steady against my back.
