6. Reid
SIX
REID
The second I saw Sage standing outside the station door, I knew it wasn’t just a friendly visit.
Not that Sage showing up anywhere was unusual. We’d grown up tangled in each other’s lives. Small-town friendships got messy and permanent whether you wanted them to or not.
But tonight—yeah, this wasn’t a beer-and-football catch-up.
I pushed the door open the rest of the way, stepping out into the warm dark. “Come in.”
“Thanks.”
He followed me inside. I poured two coffees from the pot on the counter and slid one across the table. Sage caught it, settling into the beat-up chair across from me.
There wasn’t any small talk. Just steady, comfortable silence born from decades of friendship between us.
“You heard about what happened at Cael’s?” I finally said.
“News moves fast around here.” His tone was dry, but not accusing. “Didn’t take long for someone to text me.”
I sat, stretching my legs out under the table. “Nobody got hurt.”
“I know. Thanks to you.”
“It was a grease fire, Sage. Nothing serious.”
“Yeah, well. Appreciate you looking out for him.”
That landed somewhere uncomfortable. Like I was doing something noble, when the truth was, I couldn’t not look out for Ari if I tried.
I shifted in my seat. “He’s grown now.”
“I know that. He’s still... figuring things out. It doesn’t look like he feels settled, but who does, right?” Sage shook his head, eyes tired but not hard. “I worry about him not seeing himself the way we do. Has always had this thing like he’s gotta prove he belongs.”
Something sharp worked behind my ribs. I’d seen that too—that restless way Ari smiled too quick, laughed too loud, like if he stopped moving, somebody might notice the cracks underneath.
“He’s got nothing to prove,” I said quietly.
Sage gave me a look. “Try telling him that.”
A pause stretched long between us, filled only by the sound of Trent cursing softly somewhere in the bay.
Sage took a sip of his coffee, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “He always looked up to you, Reid. You know that.”
“I know.”
“Not just ’cause you used to hang around the house, fixing bikes and sneaking him candy behind Mom’s back.
You made him feel like he mattered. Like he was more than just my annoying little brother.
” He glanced at me sideways. “I don’t know what’s going on in his head these days, but I know one thing—he’d follow you damn near anywhere. ”
Heat crawled up my neck, uncomfortable and intense. “He’s not a kid.”
“I didn’t say he was. I’m not here to start anything. I’m just here because...” Sage trailed off, blowing out a breath. “I just don’t want to see him get hurt. Not by someone he?—”
He caught himself, eyes narrowing slightly like he’d stepped too close to something dangerous.
I raised a brow. “Someone he what?”
He shook his head. “Forget it. Probably nothing.”
But it wasn’t nothing. Not for me.
That quiet worry in his voice twisted something low in my gut, guilt and wanting braided so tight I couldn’t tell one from the other anymore.
Sage drummed his fingers lightly on the table, gaze distant. “You were always good at that, you know. Looking out for people.”
I tried for a smile, but it felt uneven. “I didn’t know I had a reputation.”
He huffed a soft laugh. “Yeah, you did. Especially with Ari.”
There it was—the shape of the thing we hadn’t said, sliding quiet between us like smoke curling under a door. I shifted in my seat, shoulders tense.
“When Dad left...” Sage’s voice trailed off for a second, like the weight of it still hadn’t lifted, even all these years later. “I was already grown, or close enough. Had the shop to build, bills to keep up with. It hurt—but I had anchors. Ari didn’t. He was just a kid.”
Six years old. Way too young to understand why his father never came back.
“Mom did everything she could,” Sage went on, voice firm but low. “But I was too busy trying to help pay the bills to give him what he really needed. I think... I think that’s part of why he stuck to you.”
I looked down into my coffee, letting the bitterness of it sit heavy on my tongue.
I remembered it, all right. The way Ari used to trail after me and Sage like a shadow desperate to be seen.
Big eyes. Kinda skinny for his age. Always on the edge of asking for something but never quite brave enough to say it out loud.
“He looked up to you,” Sage said, softer now. “Still does.”
The words landed like a weight I’d been pretending I wasn’t carrying. That steady, loyal way Ari used to hover just inside my orbit. Wanting attention. Wanting belonging. Wanting... something I hadn’t understood back then.
And now?—
Now I knew exactly what he wanted. Knew exactly what I wanted. And I didn’t know what the hell to do with that. Not with Sage sitting across from me, trusting me, grateful I’d been there for his little brother.
My throat worked around something that felt too sharp to swallow.
“I didn’t do anything special,” I muttered.
“That’s not true, and you know it.” Sage’s voice was rigid, but not accusing. “You gave him what our father should’ve. Time. Attention. Someone to follow around who didn’t treat him like a nuisance.”
Guilt crawled slowly under my skin. I’d spent years keeping Ari at arm’s length—telling myself it was to protect him, to keep things from getting messy. But it wasn’t just that. Part of me knew even back then that if I let him close... I wouldn’t want to let go.
Now he wasn’t a kid anymore. Now I wasn’t just his brother’s best friend. And that line I’d worked so hard to keep clean was starting to blur in ways I didn’t know how to handle.
Sage let out a breath, shaking his head. “I just... I wanted to say thanks. For giving him what he needed when our old man didn’t. Time. Attention. A steady hand. I couldn’t always be that. You were there for him. I can’t thank you enough.”
My stomach twisted sharply. If only he knew how not noble this thing felt now. Whatever steady hand I’d offered before was tangled up in want now, in places it shouldn’t go.
“I’m not sure I’m the guy you should be thanking,” I said finally, quiet. “Not anymore.”
Sage frowned, studying me like he was searching for the thread he’d missed. “Why’s that?”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Guilt and want knotted tight in my chest, same as always. I swallowed some coffee. It burned its way down, bitter and hot, like it could scald the truth quiet.
Outside, somewhere in the bay, Trent swore under his breath again.
Sage didn’t press, just sat there steadily like he always did. And I sat across from him, pretending I wasn’t breaking apart by degrees.
“It’s that I don’t know how to be there anymore,” I finally said, voice rough around the edges. “He’s not that kid chasing after us on his bike. He’s grown. And I?—”
I cut myself off before I said too much. Before I told him what kind of thoughts kept me up at night.
Sage’s brow furrowed. “You’ve been there for him before. Why would that be any different now?”
Because before, it had been easy. Before, he was just the kid tagging along behind us, wanting to be part of something bigger, looking at me like I knew how to fix things.
Now? Now he was a grown man, with demure smiles and quick comebacks and a mouth I thought about too damn much when I was supposed to be thinking about safer things. Cleaner things.
Now, nothing about it was easy.
“It used to be easy, Sage. Now...” I shook my head, not sure if I should say anything else.
Sage watched me for a long time, like he could untangle all that I’d left unsaid.
“You’ve always been what he needed,” he said finally. “And maybe you’re the only one who doesn’t see it.”
If Sage only knew that seeing it wasn’t the problem.
It was what I saw that was killing me.
No—I saw wild hair catching the summer light, messy in a way that wasn’t fair. I saw sharp laughter— his —the kind that made something low and hot twist in my chest before I even understood why.
Sage was my best friend, the kind of friend who was more like family.
And by extension, his little brother had always been part of my life too.
I’d patched up Ari’s scraped knees, let him nap on my chest when he was small, talked him down from first crushes and stupid heartbreaks when he got older.
I’d always looked out for him. Maybe that’s why I noticed when the way he looked at me started to change—somewhere around sixteen, seventeen.
Figured he’d outgrow it once he went off to college, met new people, built a life outside Briar Creek. I told myself he just needed time.
And for a while, it felt like maybe I was right. He left, started classes, dated a bit. We still talked—FaceTimed sometimes, swapped dumb memes, traded updates. He was still Ari. Still bright and flirty and too much for one room.
Then came that damn barbecue. Ari’s mom, Liz, insisted on throwing it because he was home for the summer after finishing his first year of college.
I hadn’t been thinking about much that day—just beer, chicken on the grill.
Ari was nineteen. Still Sage’s baby brother in my mind.
Then I heard it—his laugh, rising above the hum of conversation like it belonged in the center of everything, like it was meant for me.
I looked up, and there he was. Sunlight in his curls, head tipped back, mouth wide with that cocky, careless grin.
And it hit me—low and sudden, like someone had taken a swing at my ribs and missed on purpose, just to see how I’d flinch.