Chapter Six #2
That gets a chuckle out of him, but I see the shift in his expression the second I mention Reign. Something tightens. His usual light mischief sharpens into something darker. Protective.
“She’s off,” I say quietly, running my fingers through his hair to soothe the sudden tension. “She says it’s Dylan stuff.”
His jaw ticks, and his eyes flash with that familiar wild heat. “You want me to—”
“No,” I cut in gently, brushing my thumb along his cheek. “She made you swear to stay out of it. I promised to dig a little this weekend. If I find out he’s screwing around, then I’ll let you know if it’s time to run free.”
A gleam sparks in his eye. “Like your personal guard dog?”
I smirk. “Exactly. My very loyal, occasionally unhinged pet.”
He grins, wicked and shamelessly. “I’ll be your pet any day, baby. Just tell me when to bite.”
I lean in, press another quick kiss to his lips, and whisper, “Soon.” Then I slip from his arms, making my way over to where Emerson and Rowen are lounging nearby, both of them watching us with knowing smirks.
Rowen pulls me onto his lap for a long, lingering kiss. “Hurry back, baby.”
“I’ll miss you too,” I whisper, squeezing him before turning to Emerson.
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and smiles. “Shoot us a group text when you get home, so we know you made it okay.”
“Will do,” I promise, kissing him just as deeply.
As I head for the door—for real this time—I swear I can still feel their warmth clinging to my skin. And even though I’m stepping away for now, I already know I’m coming back, because I wouldn’t miss this for the world.
I pull into the driveway just as the sun dips low, casting long golden streaks across the front of our house.
The windows glow softly, welcoming me home.
The second I open the door, the scent hits me—garlic, oregano, simmering tomatoes—and my stomach lets out a dramatic growl as if starved for days.
Dad’s in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, wooden spoon in hand like a weapon of culinary war.
The sauce is nearly finished, and he’s humming off-key to some old rock song playing low on the speaker.
It’s our thing—spaghetti night. We always make this meal together. Comfort food with a side of tradition.
“Shit,” I mutter, toeing off my shoes. “Dad, I’m so sorry. I totally forgot we had dinner plans.”
He turns just enough to give me a look—equal parts amusement and mock offense. “I figured as much when I didn’t hear the tornado of your entrance an hour ago.”
“I was at Reign’s,” I explain quickly, stepping into the kitchen and feeling a small blush creep into my cheeks. “She’s been feeling kind of down, and I wanted to cheer her up.”
It’s technically not a total lie. Just... a slightly edited version of the truth.
Dad eyes me for a second, like he’s reading more than I’m saying. His gaze is steady, quiet, knowing—like he’s always five steps ahead of me and just waiting for me to catch up. But then he shrugs and turns back to stir the sauce. “You should’ve invited her over. Could’ve fed the poor girl.”
“Maybe next time,” I mumble, grabbing an apron from the hook and slipping it over my head. “But... selfishly? I kind of like when it’s just us.”
He smiles at that. Soft. Real. A little sad, too. “Yeah. Me too, kiddo.”
With Mom gone, these moments mean more than either of us says out loud. Cooking together has become our unspoken ritual—our way of connecting in the chaos. Dad’s work keeps him stretched thin, but he always makes time for this. For me.
We fall into a peaceful rhythm, like always.
I chop the basil while he drains the noodles.
He teaches me (again) how not to over-salt the sauce, and I steal spoonfuls when his back is turned just to annoy him.
He flicks a bit of water at me from the sink.
I retaliate with a flick of flour to his shoulder.
It’s chaotic, loud, and totally perfect.
By the time we sit down to eat, the kitchen smells like heaven, and my cheeks hurt from smiling. We load our plates and dig in, the only sound for a moment being the clink of forks and the occasional appreciative groan over the perfectly done pasta.
“School good?” he asks between bites.
“Boring as ever,” I say with a shrug.
He nods, then wipes his mouth with his napkin and glances at me sideways. “And how are the boys?”
I pause, my fork hovering over my plate, suddenly unsure where to go.
“They’re fine. Same old, same old,” I reply, trying to keep it casual.
But Dad tips his head, eyes twinkling just enough to make my heart stutter. “Hmm,” he hums, a knowing little smile curling at the corners of his mouth. “If you say so.”
I narrow my eyes. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” he says innocently, sipping his drink. “Just a dad. Watching his daughter. Noticing things.”
He doesn’t push, but the look he gives me says he’s not fooled. Not even a little.
And yeah, I’m keeping secrets. But for now? I’m keeping them tucked close, where they’re safe.
~~~~~
The rest of the week somehow drags and flies by all at once—a weird contradiction that leaves me feeling like I’m floating through a time warp.
I spend most of it with Reign, intentionally carving out time for just the two of us.
No brothers. No distractions. Just girls, snacks, and a lot of honesty.
.. or at least as much as she’s willing to give.
It’s subtle at first, but the more time we spend together, the lighter she seems. There’s less tension in her shoulders. Her laugh comes easier. And even though she still dodges eye contact when certain topics creep up, I can feel the shift.
I miss the boys, though. That ache is undeniable.
It hums under my skin like a low-grade fever, especially when the texts slow down or they resist the urge to “accidentally” show up every five minutes—which, let’s be honest, they’re terrible at.
Reign calls me out on it constantly, rolling her eyes like she can read my mind.
“Go ahead,” she snorts one afternoon while painting her toes in my room. “You’re practically vibrating. Text your boyfriends.”
“They’re not—” I start, but the look she gives me is one of pure sarcasm.
“Berkley. You’re glowing. You look like someone who’s ruined and blessed all at once.”
I sputter on my lemonade, and she breaks into laughter. It’s the clearest glimpse of her old self I’ve seen in days.
Eventually, our talks get deeper. She opens up about Dylan—her on-again, off-again trainwreck of a boyfriend.
The last time she talked about him in any real way, she admitted he was pressuring her.
Not just emotionally, but physically. She wasn’t sure if she wanted him to be her first. Now, though.
.. things are different. Or at least, that’s what she says.
“It doesn’t matter as much as I thought it would,” she shrugs as we lie on our backs, staring at the ceiling. “All that build-up around virginity? Kinda overrated.”
Her tone is casual, but there’s something too detached about it. Too practiced. I turn my head to study her, unsure if I’m imagining the shift.
“Wait... are you saying you’re not—”
“Anyway,” she cuts in quickly, sitting up and fluffing her pillow like it personally offended her. “Did you ever finish that playlist you were making me, or was that just a broken promise?”
I let it go. For now. But the look I give her makes it clear I’m not buying the subject change, and she knows it. Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t push me away. Not completely.
We spend most of our time at my house because the boys are very good at popping in when we’re at Reign’s. Which, of course, is exactly why she keeps insisting we stay at mine. Less ambush. Less chaos.
Of course, I manage to steal moments with the guys.
Little snippets of time that feel like they’ve been pulled straight from a dream and tucked into reality just for me.
A kiss here, a lingering touch there—nothing overly scandalous, but enough to make my heart race and my skin buzz with anticipation.
I try to be good. Really, I do. But keeping my hands to myself? Nearly impossible. And based on the way their fingers brush my hips when no one’s looking, or how their lips always find a way back to mine like they’ve been starving without the taste, I’m not the only one struggling.
It’s not even about the heat—though there’s plenty of that—it’s about the connection.
The pull. Like magnets that found their match and are constantly testing the limits of how far they can be apart before snapping back together.
Every glance across the room, every accidental brush of our shoulders—it’s electric.
They’re mine now. And I’m theirs.
But for now, we’re playing it cool, or at least we’re trying to. Hidden smiles. Quick goodbyes that linger too long. Secret touches that say everything we’re not allowed to out loud yet.
We’re living in stolen moments... and I’m already greedy for more.
Which is exactly why, when Rowen stops by Thursday night under the guise of “just checking in,” I don’t hesitate to open the door wider and invite him inside.
I already know my dad isn’t coming home until Friday night—he mentioned earlier in the week, something about a late meeting before heading back from a conference.
He’s the only one of the dads who doesn’t stay overnight, always choosing to drive back instead.
And just to be safe, I already let him know I’d be sleeping over at Reign’s Friday night.
That way, when he gets back and sees I’m not home, it doesn’t raise any red flags.
Strategic planning? Maybe. But when you’re juggling three insanely attractive guys who make your knees weak just by looking at you—it’s called survival.
Rowen’s standing in my doorway now, one hand braced against the frame, wearing that smile that’s equal parts sweet and cocky.
The kind that makes it hard to breathe if I stare too long.
He doesn’t say much at first, just watches me with those soft but unreadable eyes, like he’s weighing something in his mind. But I already know. I feel it too.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice rough around the edges.
“Come in,” I say quietly, stepping back to let him through. My heart flutters as he walks past, his fingers grazing mine—intentional, no doubt. That brief touch is like flipping a switch inside me.
The house is quiet. The kind of quiet that only happens when you know no one else is coming home. It buzzes around us with possibility. Anticipation. And even though I told myself I’d take things slow this week... Rowen showing up at my door? That’s a sign. A very tempting one.
And I have no intention of ignoring it.