30. Jordyn
JORDYN
The key turns in the lock with a soft click.
The front door swings open into silence.
It’s like stepping from a roaring ocean into a soundproof room.
Brody leans against the doorframe, his energy gone, a puppet with its strings cut.
His face is pale under the porch light, his eyes glassy with the familiar glaze of a system shutdown.
I move on pure instinct, my hand finding the small of his back to guide him over the threshold.
Shoes first, placed neatly side-by-side.
Our little ritual of re-entry. I flick off the overhead light, leaving only the warm, amber glow of the small lamp on the end table.
The house breathes around us, a comfortable, known space.
The scent of our laundry soap, the faint drone of the refrigerator.
It’s the total opposite of the fundraiser’s assault of popcorn, diesel fumes, and clashing perfumes.
Brody shuffles toward his room, and I follow, a silent shadow ensuring his path is clear.
He pulls on his pajamas with clumsy, tired fingers while I pull back his weighted blanket.
He doesn't need to ask for it. Tonight, the pressure is a necessity.
He crawls into bed and curls on his side, a small, tight knot of boy.
I sit on the mattress, its springs groaning under my weight.
My hand rests flat on his back, a steady, warm pressure.
I feel the even rise and fall of his breath beneath my palm.
A deep, slow rhythm replaces the shallow, anxious puffs from earlier.
He doesn't fidget. He doesn’t fight the pull of sleep.
He just sinks into it, surrendering to the quiet and the dark, his body finally letting go of the day’s tension.
I stay there long after his breathing deepens, long after his muscles go completely slack.
The house is still. The night outside is still.
Finally, I move to stand. My knees crack in protest. And as my feet take my full weight, it happens.
A physical sensation, like a lead apron dropping over my skull and settling across my shoulders.
The energy that held me together—the frantic scanning, the forced smiles, the careful navigation—evaporates.
It leaves behind a crushing heaviness. All of it.
The noise, the crowds, the look in Dean's eyes, Wes’s jarring closeness.
It all comes rushing into the void Brody’s sleep has left behind.
The exhaustion is a physical weight, pressing down on my chest, making each breath a conscious effort.
I pull Brody’s door until it clicks softly into its frame.
The quiet of the house is a balm. In the kitchen, my hands move on their own, finding the kettle, filling it with water.
The scrape of a mug on the counter sounds deafening.
I function on autopilot, my body running a script it knows by heart while my mind spins, replaying the day’s gauntlet of faces and noise.
I carry the steaming mug into the living room, the herbal scent of chamomile a weak defense against the tightness in my throat.
I sink into the corner of the sofa, the cushions sighing around me.
And then, a sound.
Three soft knocks. So quiet I almost think I imagine it, but the sound cuts straight through the stillness of the house.
Clean. Intentional. It's not the sharp rap of a stranger or the hurried pound of an emergency.
My heart gives a single, hard thump against my ribs.
I already know. I set my mug down and walk to the door, my bare feet cold against the floorboards.
When I pull it open, Tate stands on the small stoop.
The porch light carves him out of the night, catching the dark stubble on his jaw and the concern settled in his warm brown eyes.
He keeps his distance, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans.
He doesn’t move to step inside. He grants me that control.
“Just wanted to make sure he settled okay.” His voice is low, a smooth stone skipping across the silence.
“He’s asleep. Crashed the second his head hit the pillow.” The words are automatic, the standard reply I give to nurses and teachers.
His gaze holds mine for a beat. Then it shifts, his focus narrowing, seeing past the rote answer to the frayed edges underneath. “And you? You okay?”
My throat tightens. The easy answer sits on my tongue. I’m fine. It’s the lie I live in. But it doesn’t come out. I just lean against the doorframe, the cool wood a flimsy support, and the silence that hangs between us is its own kind of answer.
I don't answer. I can't. The words tie a knot in my throat.
Instead, I step back from the door, a silent invitation.
He hesitates for only a second before crossing the threshold.
I shut the door, the latch clicking with a finality that echoes in the quiet house.
I gesture toward the living room, my discarded mug of tea still sitting on the end table, a pale ghost of steam rising from its surface.
He follows without a word, his steps sure and quiet on the worn floorboards.
He takes a seat on the opposite end of the sofa, creating a respectable distance between us.
I sink down into the cushions, a fortress of frayed fabric.
The silence stretches, filled only by the low hum of the overhead light from the kitchen.
Why does he know how to handle Brody with a gentleness that takes most people years to learn?
Why did his gaze keep finding mine across the crowded fundraiser today, a steady anchor in the chaos?
Why is he sitting in my living room now, a solid, calming presence after ten o'clock at night?
“I know what it’s like. After a day like that.” His voice is even, cutting through my thoughts. “The quiet is so loud, you can’t hear yourself think.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” The lie is thin, brittle.
“My little brother, Eli,” he continues, his eyes not on me, but on some point in the middle distance.
“After a bad day at school, the whole house had to go on lockdown. Quiet. Dark. No one could talk to him until he was ready. We learned to live around the silence.” He finally looks at me. “We learned to wait.”
He shifts on the couch, the denim of his jeans whispering against the upholstery. He closes half the distance between us. Close enough now that I feel the warmth radiating from him. Close enough that I see the exhaustion etched in the faint lines around his own eyes.
“But I wasn’t just worried about him today, Jordyn. I was watching you. You never stop. You hold all his tension, and then you hold your own on top of it. I just wanted to see who was checking on the one holding everything together.”
"Why do you care?"
The question rasps out of me, ragged and raw, and the second I hear it—the way it cracks under the weight of everything I won’t say—I wish I could claw it back.
Tate doesn’t answer with words. One hand curves around my neck, fingers sliding into my hair. The other tilts my chin up, his thumb brushing along my jaw. He’s not rough, not demanding. He’s asking. And God help me, I lean into it. His breath is warm against my lips.
"Because someone has to," he murmurs, "and I can't stop thinking about this."
Then his mouth finds mine, and the world falls away.
The kiss isn’t gentle—it’s wildfire. The moment our lips meet, something primal takes over.
Tate’s hands grip my hips, hauling me into him with a possessiveness that makes my breath catch.
His mouth is insistent, demanding, and I surrender willingly, parting my lips with a gasp he swallows whole.
Every nerve in my body lights up as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sweeping against mine in a rhythm that leaves no room for hesitation.
His grip shifts, one broad hand sliding up my spine to fist in my shirt, as if I might pull away.
As if I could. The other hand curves around my thigh, fingers digging in just enough to leave a mark—something to remember this by.
The rough texture of his calloused palms against my skin sends a spike of heat low in my stomach.
I shift, straddling him properly now, knees sinking into the soft fabric of the couch cushions on either side of his hips. My fingers twist desperately in his shirt, fisting the worn cotton like an anchor. His chest presses against mine, the steady thud of his heartbeat erratic, matching mine.
He tastes like coffee and something deeper, something undeniably him.
The scent of smoke and faint detergent clings to his clothes, enveloping me in a heady mix of want and comfort.
His fingers skim under my shirt, rough and warm as they map the bare skin of my sides before cupping the curve of my breast. The pad of his thumb flicks over my nipple, and I gasp into his mouth, arching against him.
A low growl tears from his throat as I grind down, feeling how hard he is beneath me. His hands tighten, holding me in place as if he’s afraid I might disappear. The air crackles, every inch of contact humming with tension.
The mug of tea teeters dangerously on the table, forgotten.
Later, there will be spilled liquid and cooling ceramic.
Later, there will be words—maybe. But right now, there’s just this: his mouth claiming mine, his hands branding my skin, and the undeniable truth that we’re both past the point of no return.
Clothes vanish between desperate tugs. His shirt hits the floor. My fingers rake down his chest, tracing ridges of muscle, the smooth expanse of his shoulders. His hands hook in the waistband of my leggings, peeling them down my hips, and I kick them free.
The moment he pushes himself inside me, everything else dissolves—the scattered clothes on the floor, the cold tea forgotten on the table, even the weight of all the unspoken things between us.
There’s only this: the slick heat of him filling me inch by torturous inch, my body stretching to accommodate him, stealing my breath.
His exhale rasps hot against my collarbone, chest heaving like he’s barely holding onto control, and I clutch at his shoulders, fingernails biting into taut muscle.
His hips roll with devastating deliberation, each thrust measured, relentless.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t let up. Just takes me apart piece by piece with slow, surgical precision, as if cataloging every hitch of my breath, every shiver against his skin.
One hand fists in my hair, tipping my head back, and his mouth drags down the column of my throat, tongue flicking over my racing pulse before his teeth scrape lightly—a barely-there threat that liquefies me.
"Look at you," he murmurs, voice roughened with reverence, "taking me so fucking perfect." The raw awe in his words undoes me more than the push of his cock, more than the sinful flex of his hips as he bottoms out.
I’m wound impossibly tight, balanced on the knife’s edge of oblivion, when his free hand slips between us.
His fingers circle my clit with unerring accuracy, gentle strokes at first. I cry out, back arching, and he swallows the sound with another bruising kiss.
The pleasure detonates without warning—white-hot and consuming—every muscle clamping around him as waves of ecstasy rip through me.
His hips stutter, rhythm fracturing, and then he’s following me over that orgasmic edge with a low, wrecked groan against my skin, his fingers still working me through the aftershocks until we’re both shuddering and spent.
The aftermath is a mess of limbs and silence, heavy with what we’ve just done.
Our breathing still uneven, shallow—mine catching every time his fingertips brush lazily over my bare shoulder or trace idle circles against the dip of my waist. His arm stays curled around me longer than it should, fingers tangled in my hair, lingering like he’s memorizing the feel of it.
This complicates everything.
Hell.