SEVEN
The doorbell rang.
Kieran woke up disoriented and damp.
For a few seconds, he had no idea where he was or why his body felt heavy in that post-shower, post-spiral way. The light in the room had changed, and was no longer the bright afternoon glare, but something softer, ambered, sliding toward evening.
The doorbell rang again, more insistent this time.
“Shit,” Kieran muttered, sitting upright too fast and regretting it. He glanced around, clocking the room. Towels. Couch. Phone on the floor. He’d fallen asleep hard. Clean exhaustion, the kind that didn’t ask permission.
The dogs were standing in the hallway, alert but quiet. Tails neutral. Curious, not alarmed.
That was a red flag.
Kieran swung his legs off the couch and padded toward the door, heart starting to thud for reasons he didn’t want to unpack yet. He pulled it open without looking through the peephole.
Rory stood there.
Dusk had settled around him, the sky behind his shoulders washed in that coastal blue-gray. He was holding a six-pack of beer by the cardboard handle, one finger hooked through it like it weighed nothing.
“Hey,” Rory lifted the beers. "These are for you. I'm on a sparkling water kick." He waggled a La Croix can as evidence.
Kieran stared at him, brain lagging.
“Oh,” he said finally. “Wow.”
Rory smiled, relaxed, like this was the most normal follow-up to the afternoon imaginable.
“Can I come in?” Rory asked. “Or is this a ‘we never speak of what happened’ situation?”
Kieran stepped aside. “No. I mean…yes. Come in.”
Rory crossed the threshold like he’d done it before, which, irritatingly, he had, just on the other side of the fence.
“You know the layout,” Kieran said, gesturing vaguely. “It’s literally the exact same as your place. Just mirrored.”
Rory glanced around, nodding. “Ah, yes. The classic coastal copy-paste.”
Kieran shut the door and leaned against it for half a beat longer than necessary.
"Sorry," he said, because apparently his mouth had decided that was the theme of the evening. "About earlier. The dog. The fence. The…everything."
Rory waved it off. "Honestly? I've seen worse."
Kieran's brain snagged on that word like a fishhook.
Worse.
Worse how? Worse what?? Worse naked neighbors??? Worse situations????
He shut those thoughts down before it could finish forming.
Rory, meanwhile, had already moved on, setting the six-pack on the counter like nothing had happened.
"Hank was extremely proud of himself, by the way," Rory added.
Kieran huffed, grateful for the pivot. "He's a menace."
They moved into the living room, the quiet settling between them—not awkward exactly, just careful. Rory glanced around, eyes lingering on details Kieran usually forgot were there, moving through the room slowly.
Then he sat.
Right into the leather chair.
Kieran clenched a subtle fist. No one had sat in that chair since…
"This is a nice chair," Rory said, settling into it. "Solid. Good lines."
"Thanks," Kieran managed. "It's the one thing I refused to put in storage."
Rory ran a hand along the armrest. "Feels lived in. That's the best kind."
Kieran sat across from him, grateful his face wasn't doing anything embarrassing.
"So," Rory said, leaning forward. "If it helps, the toddler thinks you're a legend."
"That does not help."
"She demanded we call and tell her mom. Twice. I summarized." A pause. "Selectively." He winked.
"God.” Kieran groaned, but was smiling. “Alright, give me one of those.”
Rory handed him a beer.
Kieran sat there for a full thirty seconds too long, bottle sweating in his hand, brain circling one obvious question and refusing to land on it.
Rory, meanwhile, had already made himself comfortable, one ankle crossed over the other, shoulders loose, like this was a normal Saturday night and not the aftermath of the most humiliating fence-related incident of Kieran's adult life.
The toddler laugh replayed in Kieran’s head.
He cleared his throat.
“So,” he said too quickly, hating the way it came out. Too casual. Too loaded.
Rory glanced up, patient. “Yeah?”
Kieran stared at the label on his beer. “The…toddler.”
Rory smiled faintly, like he could see where this was going and was choosing not to rescue him yet.
“Right,” Rory said. “Aubrey.”
Kieran nodded, then realized that wasn’t an answer. He swallowed. “She’s…?”
There it was. The pause. The moment where his voice betrayed him just enough.
“Your…?” he tried again, then gave up.
Rory’s eyebrows lifted, understanding landing gently on his face. Not defensive, but amused in a soft, human way.
“My niece,” Rory said. “Not my daughter.”
Kieran’s shoulders dropped so fast it was almost embarrassing.
“Oh,” he said. Then, because he couldn’t help himself, “Okay. Okay, good. I mean…not good, like…kids are good. Obviously.”
“You’re fine,” Rory’s laugh came out low and warm.
He took a sip of water and leaned back in the chair. “My sister’s a single mom. Aubrey’s three. They live up in San Clemente. My sister travels a lot in the area for work. She’s a nurse. Fills in for shifts when people call out.”
“That explains the energy,” Kieran said weakly.
“Oh, she’s feral,” Rory said fondly. “In a delightful way.”
“And her dad?” Kieran asked, gently now.
Rory’s mouth flattened for just a second. “Deadbeat ex-husband. Ran off when things got hard. Sends birthday cards occasionally. That’s about it.”
Kieran nodded. He didn’t say I’m sorry. It felt unnecessary.
“So I babysit when I can,” Rory added. “Which mostly means I get climbed on like furniture and lose toys over the fence.”
Kieran winced. “About that.”
Rory waved it off. “Hank’s a hero. Aubrey thinks he’s the funniest dog alive.”
“That’s unfortunate for the rest of us,” Kieran said.
Rory smiled, then shifted in the chair.
He paused.
Then sniffed the air.
“Do you smell mint?” Rory asked.
Kieran froze.
"Uh," he said. "Yeah."
Rory frowned thoughtfully. "Is that coming from the chair?"
Kieran exhaled, long and slow, like he'd just been handed the next card in a deck he hadn't wanted to play tonight.
"My mom," he said.
Rory went still.
"She used peppermint oil for everything," Kieran continued. "Headaches. Stress. Cancer. Emotional support. Furniture." He paused. "And gardenias. She always had gardenias in the yard. Whole house smelled like them in the summer. Her favorite flower."
Rory's eyes softened. He didn't interrupt.
"She died a few years ago," Kieran said. "Ovarian cancer. Which—fun fact—is great at pretending nothing's wrong until it very much is."
Rory set his water down carefully.
"I was already living there," Kieran said. "Moved back when she got bad the last time and just...never left. After she died, the house was too full of her and too empty at the same time. So I finally packed the dogs and drove south until the air smelled different."
He nodded toward the corner by the fireplace.
There, tucked neatly beside the hearth, sat a small decorative box with sunset colors painted across its surface, understated, almost cheerful.
"That's her," Kieran said. "Ashes."
Rory followed his gaze.
Kieran let out a short, crooked laugh. "I realize keeping your dead mom on display is not everyone's design choice. But she liked sunsets. And apparently she liked this chair enough to stay in it."
Rory didn't say anything.
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, attention fully on Kieran in a way that felt grounding rather than heavy.
"My therapist says it's 'continuing bonds,'" Kieran added. "I say it's haunted-adjacent."
Rory’s smile was small, kind. "Feels...intentional."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," Rory said. "Like she still gets a seat."