Page 8

Wyatt

I’m stretched out on the couch, half buried under a blanket, mindlessly scrolling through Netflix when the footsteps echo down the hallway.

My spine stiffens. I mute the TV, my thumb hovering over the remote as I strain my ears, waiting for another sound.

Mom’s working a late shift in Lancaster—bigger town, better tips—so it’s not her. Which leaves… who?

A prickle of unease crawls up my neck.

“Hello?” I call out, then roll my eyes at myself.

Like some intruder will just announce their presence, reassure me all is well, and tell me to go back to my binge-watching.

I shove the blanket off my lap, my heartbeat thudding just a little faster, and tiptoe toward the kitchen.

Then I hear it. The clatter of a dishwasher rack, the low scrape of the door shutting, and finally—a familiar throat clear.

Relief floods me, but I don’t slow my steps as I round the corner.

My brother is reaching for the fridge, his fingers curling around a bottle of water when he spins to face me, nearly jumping out of his skin when he sees me standing there with my arms crossed.

“What the heck are you doing?” I demand, my pulse still racing from the unnecessary panic.

Colter chokes on his drink, his coughs rattling through the kitchen as he slams a fist against his chest.

“Jesus, Wy,” he rasps, glaring at me as he tries to catch his breath. “A little heads-up would’ve been nice.”

I lift a brow. “You’re telling me. You couldn’t send a text to let me know you were dropping by?”

He swipes his wrist across his mouth, setting the water down with a pointed look.

“Mom asked me to come check the dishwasher. Apparently, it wouldn’t run.” His eyes narrow on me. “Not that you’d notice, considering you clearly haven’t been helping with the dishes.”

My teeth clench, guilt gnawing at the edges of my chest.

He’s not wrong.

Mom’s out busting her ass, picking up shifts at a second job while I’m here sitting on the couch like I don’t have responsibilities.

Tomorrow, I’ll transfer some money into her account. If I’m not paying rent anymore, I sure as hell need to pull my weight somehow.

I huff, pushing past the guilt, my tone tight. “It’s not like I’ve been sitting on my ass all day. I had class this morning, then my shift at Sweet Tooth.” I glare. “So cut the assholery, will ya?”

Colter grins, his smirk easy, like he was just waiting for me to snap.

He crosses the kitchen in two strides, slinging an arm around my neck, giving me one of those half-assed, irritatingly brotherly squeezes.

“All right, all right. That was out of line. I’m sorry.”

I shove him off with a huff, though my lips betray me by twitching into something that almost resembles a smile.

“Damn right, you are.”

He laughs, stepping back as I yank open the fridge and grab a drink for myself, the tension finally settling into something easier.

“How have things been since you moved back home?” Colter asks, his voice casual, but I know better.

Ever the caretaker, he’s always watching, always checking in.

I shrug, keeping my tone light as if saying the words will make them feel true. “I'm okay. Can't complain, I guess.”

It’s a lie, of course.

I’m questioning everything—my future, my happiness, the suffocating weight of being back in this house. And I sure as hell won’t admit how living next door to his best friend makes me feel like I’m walking through a minefield of memories—memories of a night he doesn’t know about.

Colter takes another slow drink of water, his eyes steady as he leans against the counter, crossing one leg over the other.

“You sure?”

I narrow my gaze, sensing something more beneath his words. “Why?”

He tilts his head, studying me like he’s already got a read on the truth. “Zane mentioned you were in a mood at his birthday party the other night. Something about running into you in Keaton… and giving you a ride home.”

It’s like he just took my last two nerves, ground them together, and lit a match.

Heat prickles up my spine, but I fight to keep my expression neutral.

“He told you about that?” My voice is flat, but Colter still catches the shift.

His brows pinch, picking up on something I don’t want him to. “Why does that surprise you?”

I work to smooth my features, to hide the irritation clawing at my chest.

Zane ran his damn mouth. And now Colter is looking at me like I should explain myself, like I owe him an answer for why I was in Keaton at all.

I grit my teeth, pressing my lips together, swallowing the retort sitting on my tongue.

Because losing it on my brother won’t do anything.

Not when my anger is meant for someone else entirely.

Thankfully, he lets it drop.

Colter shifts the conversation back to the dishwasher, explaining how he got it running, but some part needs replacing. “I’ll grab it in a couple of days and come fix it,” he adds, scribbling a note for Mom before heading for the door.

Relief seeps into my shoulders when he finally leaves.

I exhale, stretching my arms over my head as I head upstairs, fully prepared to crawl into bed and let this night disappear.

But then my eyes catch on the glow of a light from next door.

Zane’s place.

Something in me flickers, a pull I don’t want to acknowledge.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m already moving. I spin on my heel, marching back down the hall, taking the stairs two at a time.

Shoving my feet into a pair of fleece boots, I push out the back door and head straight across the yard toward him.

The glow of the porch light spills onto the front steps, but his car in the driveway confirms he’s home.

For half a second, doubt creeps in. What if he’s not alone? What if I just stormed over here, ready for a fight, only to interrupt something I have no desire to see?

But the thought comes a second too late—because my fist is already slamming against the door.

“Open the hell up, Zane. I know you’re here.”

My voice carries into the night, loud enough that I pray Myla and his parents aren’t home.

I haven’t been around enough to notice their coming and going schedules. For all I know, they could be asleep or relaxing inside, and they’re about to be disturbed by my impulsive ass.

The blinds shift, a shadow moving behind them. Then the deadbolt clicks, and the door swings open.

And suddenly, every thought in my head vanishes.

Because Zane is standing shirtless in front of me.

My mouth parts, but no words come out as my eyes drop, against my better judgment, to his bare chest—the sculpted ridges of muscle, the faint trail of ink peeking from beneath his sweatpants, the way those black joggers hang low enough on his hips to destroy my peace.

Oh God.

My stomach knots, panic tightening in my ribs as my brain catches up to the very real possibility that I’ve just interrupted something.

I force my gaze up, but my voice betrays me, blurting out the first thought that crashes through my head.

“What the hell are you doing?” I shout.

Zane’s lips twitch, like he’s amused. But his voice is low, rough around the edges.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that? You’re the one banging on my door, shouting at me.”

I shift, craning my neck past him, searching for any sign of another woman inside.

He follows my gaze, and just like that, his smirk disappears.

With a slow exhale, he pushes the door open wider in a silent challenge. “There’s no one here, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

My pulse kicks up, but I keep my expression carefully blank.

“If you want to come in, you’re welcome to. Or you can stand out here and yell at me from my front step.”

I hesitate for only a second before brushing past him, my shoulder grazing the heat of his bare chest as I step inside.

From down the hall, I hear the faint rush of water. The realization hits me all at once.

He was about to take a shower.

Zane doesn’t say a word as he strides across the room and disappears into the bathroom.

The water shuts off and a few seconds later, Zane emerges—his hair tousled, like he’d run a hand through it in frustration. His broad chest is bare as he tugs a T-shirt over his head.

I school my face into neutral indifference, but something inside me twists with disappointment.

I barely fight the urge to let my gaze linger, to appreciate the cut of his muscles, the way his stomach flexes with every movement, taut and effortless. And then his head pops through the collar, and the cotton material covers his body, snapping me out of whatever haze I’d slipped into.

Why do I wish he hadn’t put it on?

Nope. Scratch that. I’m glad he did.

The last thing I need is another distraction from the very real reason I’m standing in his damn living room.

The scent of pine and cedar hits my senses, but beneath it is something unmistakably Zane—familiar, like every stupid memory I’ve tried to erase but never really could.

Pushing the thought away, I lift my chin, bracing myself as he crosses his arms over his chest.

“What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

“No, everything is not okay,” I snap before I can soften the blow, and his brows draw together.

I fold my arms tight across my chest, willing my pulse to slow the hell down. “Colter came over a little bit ago. You told him about running into me in Keaton?”

Zane’s arms drop to his sides, his nostrils flaring slightly.

“Yeah, I did.” His voice is even and matter-of-fact, like it’s not a big deal at all.

Heat pricks my skin, my hands balling into tight fists. “Why the hell would you do that? It’s none of his business where I go or what I do.”

And it’s not even the fact that Colter knows where I was—because, of course, my brother would lose his shit over me partying with a bunch of Keaton football players.

It’s the fact that Zane ran to him about it.

Like I’m some kind of responsibility he has to report on.

Like I’m his problem.

The memory of last night surfaces—his interference at the bar, the way he stepped between me and the guy at Whiskey Sinner, the blatant lie he told about us.

Zane’s jaw tightens, and there’s something dark in his eyes as he levels me with a look.

“You’re mad at me?” His voice is low, sharp, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “You’re mad at me for running into you after your little walk of shame out of the Alpha Nu house, and you have the audacity to be pissed that I told your brother?”

Heat crawls up my neck, my skin burning.

The rage inside me roars to life, a fire too bright, too hot to contain.

I stomp my foot, childish but so damn necessary, and grit my teeth.

“Walk of shame? You have the nerve to talk down to me ?”

Zane’s eyes darken, and I see it—the exact moment he remembers.

He knows damn well why that comment would send me over the edge.

Because two weeks after the night he kissed me and told me it was a mistake, I saw him standing outside some girl’s car in his driveway. Smirking. Flashing that same lazy charm that once had me believing he wanted me.

Two whole weeks.

And now he has the gall to act like he’s got a say in who I spend my nights with?

When she backed out of his driveway and disappeared down the street, he turned toward my yard.

His gaze locked onto mine like he could feel me watching him from across the way. Like he already knew what I was thinking before I had the chance to bury it.

We never spoke about it.

There was nothing to say.

I wasn’t his, and he sure as hell had made it clear he wasn’t mine. Getting jealous wouldn’t change a damn thing. Throwing a fit? Pointless.

So I swallowed the ache and did what I always did when it came to Zane Kinnick. I let it go.

But now, he has the audacity to look down on me? To act like I’m the one in the wrong for doing the same thing?

A fresh wave of anger ignites inside me.

Zane takes a step forward, and I take a step back.

His jaw flexes, his nostrils flaring, but he doesn’t stop advancing. His dark eyes scan my face, something unreadable flickering behind them.

“What would you like me to call it then, Wy?” His brow lifts, challenging me, daring me to fight him on this.

Something flashes across his face then—so quick I almost miss it. A flicker of something that almost looks like hurt. Maybe I’m wrong, though.

It wouldn’t be the first time I misread the signals he sent me, like trying to put together a puzzle where the pieces never quite fit.

I don’t answer. What is there to say anyway?

He takes another step forward.

I match him, stepping back until the back of my legs hit the couch.

I’m trapped. And he knows it.

The air between us tightens, coiled like a wire ready to snap as he moves in closer.

His voice drops lower, rougher. “Seeing you in his shirt, picturing you curled up in another man’s arms—what am I supposed to think, huh?” His eyes darken, his chest heaving with uneven breaths. “What would you like me to call it, then?”

The raw vulnerability behind his words hits like a sucker punch to the ribs.

I want to tell him to fuck off. I want to storm out of his house, across the yard, and slam my door shut behind me.

But I don’t. I can’t.

Instead, I force out the only truth that matters. “It’s not your business what I do with my life, Zane. You had no right to tell my brother. It wasn’t your place.”

His head shakes, a bitter laugh escaping his lips.

“Shut up,” he grits out between clenched teeth. “You don’t believe that for a second, so don’t stand here and try feeding me a load of bullshit.”

My mouth drops open, then snaps shut.

His smirk is slow and taunting, his voice lowering as he leans in, his breath warm against my ear.

“What’s that? Cat got your tongue, Wy?” His lips curve into a dangerous grin. “This might be a first.”

His words hit their mark, my pulse pounding in my throat.

But I don’t back down.

I tilt my chin, keeping my voice steady even as my insides unravel.

“Who I’m with and what I do is none of your fucking business, Zane.”

His fingers clamp around my chin, tilting my face up until we’re only inches apart. The warmth of his breath skates across my heated cheek, but it’s not the heat that has my pulse thundering in my ears—it’s the look in his eyes.

A storm. A war. A fight against himself.

His grip tightens just enough for me to feel the tension in his fingers, like he’s holding on to something just as much as he’s holding on to me.

I don’t move. Don’t speak.

I wait.

For whatever the hell is brewing inside him to spill out. For him to just say whatever is clogging his throat and finally end this goddamn game we keep playing.

“Say it,” I whisper, lifting my chin, forcing steel into my voice.

Whatever insult he’s chewing on, whatever gut-punch rejection he’s about to throw at me—I let him.

“Whatever you’re thinking, just say it. Nothing you say can hurt me now. So do it.”

Zane’s grip goes slack. His fingers leave my skin. And for some reason, it hurts more than if he had stayed.

He steps back, his gaze skittering away from mine, his jaw ticking as he drags a rough hand down his face. The air in the room shifts—thick, suffocating, choking me in all the things he refuses to say.

“Go.”

A single word.

Flat. Emotionless. A command, not a request.

Like I’m nothing. Like whatever just passed between us never even happened.

The sting slices through me like a blade.

I should’ve expected it. I did expect it. But that doesn’t stop the hurt from settling like a stone on my chest.

My exhale is sharp as I spin toward the door, my fingers curling around the handle, white-knuckled, ready to bolt.

But something inside me won’t let me leave without one last blow. I don’t turn around when I say it.

“I already have a brother, Zane. I don’t need—or want—another one. So hear me when I say this again…”

I suck in a breath, my voice laced with finality, with hurt, with every ounce of anger I can muster.

“Stay the hell out of my life.”

Then I throw open the door and slam it behind me. I don’t stop moving until I reach my room, my breaths ragged and uneven, the lump in my throat thick.

I tell myself that I won. I got the last word.

I squeeze my eyes shut, my back against the door, but it doesn’t stop the truth from settling deep in my bones.

Zane Kinnick wasn’t just my first heartbreak—he’ll be my last.