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I venture back downstairs, the moon glowing across the gleaming floor, and I listen for voices to tell where Hawke is.

But I don’t hear him.

I move hesitantly around the stairs, peeking into the living room and trying to see out the windows. I inhale the light scent of jasmine and slowly make my way to the kitchen.

The paint is fresh, the floors are new-ish, and the appliances are about as top-of-the-line as I can imagine. The refrigerator is twice the width of an average one.

But I know this house is old. Hawke mentioned things about his uncle growing up here. It’s been in his family for decades.

I trail through the kitchen and out the back door, coming onto the porch. Rain spills over the awning, and I close my eyes, breathing in the thick, cool air. The scent of green grass fills my nostrils, and I stop at the top of the first step, looking around the backyard.

A playset on the right. An outdoor rock fireplace and seating area on the left. No jacuzzi or pool. Just wide open space and plenty of room to do cartwheels.

A light glows off to the left, from the porch on the other side of the fence. Dylan’s house.

But then I notice her, a woman sitting several feet away from me, wrapped in a blanket and bobbing a bare foot that peeks out of her silk pajama pants.

I turn, taking a step back.

“Hi,” she says.

She stares at me, and I glance back at the house. Where’s Hawke?

I look at the woman again, noticing the smile in her eyes and the way she kind of tilts her head. Hawke has his father’s coloring, but he looks like her.

“Juliet Chase,” I say, but it comes out as a mumble.

The author.

But she just smiles. “Juliet Trent at home. And you’re Aro.”

Yeah. I’m not sure if she knows about me from Hawke or from other people, but I really hope it’s from Hawke.

It takes a moment, but I remember my manners. I reach out, offering my hand. “Hi.”

We shake, but I pull away really quickly, because I don’t know why. She’s kind of a big deal in certain circles, but I also just took her son’s virginity in a car, and she’s looking at me like she knows that, but how could she, right?

I don’t know. Parents know things.

“I feel like I should apologize for something,” I ramble, “but there’s been a lot, and I’ve lost track, so I’m really not sure...”

Surprisingly, she breaks into a laugh. “You remind me of someone.”

I remain silent.

“Myself,” she clarifies.

But she doesn’t elaborate. The blanket spills off her shoulders, and I see she’s wearing a delicate top with spaghetti straps underneath, really looking younger than I’m sure she is. Not that she’s old—I have no idea—but she’s beautiful.

I stand there for a minute, not sure what else to say. I mean, I’m sorry about the trouble. Has she seen any videos from the fight tonight?

I look around. “It’s nice here,” I tell her.

I’ve wondered once or twice why a semi-famous author and her brother-in-law next door, who’s a huge name in his industry, remain living on Fall Away Lane. It’s a decent enough neighborhood, but they can afford more space. Bigger houses. Gates, which would probably come in handy with crazy fans.

But I get it now. Family next door, quiet, the tree, sentimental value…it’s pretty perfect.

“I am sorry if I caused a lot of trouble,” I tell her. “I don’t mean to.”

Well…

“Well, not always,” I point out.

Sometimes I mean to.

Mrs. Trent draws in a deep breath and rises, taking the blanket with her. She leans onto the railing, the rain still coming down in streams.

“What I’ve learned about trouble is that it all depends on the outcome,” she tells me. “Trouble is only bad if it doesn’t work out.”

“And if it does?”

“Then it was just fun,” she says. “A story you’ll recap on holidays and laugh about, surrounded by people you love.”

I smile, not sure most parents would admit that. Trouble is bad. Taking chances is bad. But yeah… It’s like war. History remembers the ones who won as right, just like stealing that charm gave me Hawke. Incidentally, anyway.

So, I’m not sorry I broke into their house. At least not yet.

“Thank you for taking them in.” I slip my hands into the pockets of my shorts. “I can take care of them on my own. The situation at the house with my mother was just a little—”

“I know you can.” She stops me. “I know you can do it, Aro. But you don’t have to. I just want to make that clear.”

She turns to me in that way adults do when they want to handle me. I don’t meet her eyes.

“Listen, I don’t know what will happen yet, okay?” she says. “Maybe your mom will come around. Maybe she’ll need help and come to get them in a year. Maybe Jax and I will talk and wonder if we’re too old to keep up with Matty…” She laughs to herself. “It’s been a while for us.”