3. Scarlett
Scarlett
I froze, halfway through pouring more coffee, my hand shaking just enough to spill a little on the counter. My stomach dropped before the engine even cut off.
Not just any tires—his. The low growl of the engine, the slightly uneven rhythm of his oversized wheels kicking up dust in the drive. All the boys drove trucks, but his sounded different. It had lived through things. Held secrets in silence.
I backed away from the window slowly, my fingers slipping from the coffee pot, heartbeat thudding in my throat, desperate to escape. As if not seeing him could make it less real.
“You okay?” Sloane asked on her third coffee, legs crossed in full queen mode, scrolling through her phone like she was waiting for the world to burn.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
Rhett met my eyes across the kitchen, calm to the surface but hiding something deeper. He knew this wasn’t fine. He knew I hadn’t seen Trace Maddox since I gave up the last piece of myself I was still clinging to.
“Breathe,” Lena whispered beside me, slipping a mimosa into my hand.
The door opened before I could get out of the room.
Boots on hardwood. Heavy, slow. He wasn’t in a rush—he moved with the certainty of someone that expected to be felt before he was seen. My hand curled tighter around the glass, shoulders bracing for an impact that hadn’t landed yet.
I didn’t look up right away. I couldn’t.
“Well, well,” Kane’s voice cut through. “Look who finally showed up.”
Silence. A pin could drop.
I turned.
He was taller than I remembered. Or maybe he just carried it differently now. Dark curls a little longer than they used to be. Tattoos creeping further up his neck, inked stories I hadn’t been allowed to read.
His expression tensed, eyes locked on me—and for a split second, I swore his hand drifted to his forearm.
Trace fucking Maddox.
He was silent. His eyes traced my face in a slow unraveling, and his fingers tapped once against his thigh—barely there, a restless edge his body couldn’t suppress even as his mouth stayed still.
And my whole chest ached. Like I’d swallowed a memory wrong, and it was logged behind my ribs.
My body remembered him before my mind did—muscle memory, trauma response, call it whatever the hell you want. I felt everything at once. The weight of his stare, the history we never talked about, the night I never forgot.
My fingers drifted to the pocket of my hoodie. The lighter warm in my hand. I’d kept it all these years. I didn’t know why. I just had.
“Scarlett,” he finally said.
Just my name. Nothing more.
And still, it broke me.
I swallowed. “Hey.”
He stared for a second too long. Then, softer—softer than I remembered—
“Still carrying fire, Sunshine?”
Kane, bless him, cleared his throat. “So. Who wants pancakes?”
No one answered.
Because Trace was here.
And nothing was the same anymore.
Eventually the kitchen returned to the chaos in the way only our group could manage.
Rhett back to DJing while flipping bacon, humming along to a moody indie song about heartbreak while the smell of grease filled the air.
Sloane threatening to physically harm anyone who touched her cold brew.
Lena wiping up juice with the sleeve of her sweatshirt because “it’s already stained anyway.
” And Alden—of course—sitting on the counter like he owned it.
And then there was Trace.
Leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, not saying a word.
He didn’t go to our high school. He was older. A blur of tattoos, boots, and smoke. Slipped into our world like he didn’t belong and stayed like he couldn’t help it. Until he wasn’t.
Now he was here. And everything felt different.
It felt distant, wrong and familiar all at once—like my body was a step ahead of me, waiting.
Kane bumped hips with Rhett as he passed him a spatula. “You’re burning it again.”
“Shut up,” Rhett muttered, grinning anyway. He had that kind of face—warm, a little sun-worn. Scruff on his jaw and a scar near his eyebrow that made him look like trouble even when he was being sweet. One of those guys people trusted without knowing why.
Kane looked like he should be on a football field or in a fight. Tall, broad-shouldered, always in a sleeveless shirt even when it was freezing. He wore a chain around his neck I never saw him take off, and his laugh came out like thunder. Big, stupid energy. And underneath it? Something steel.
And Alden—he was the golden boy. Clean jawline, soft hazel eyes, a mouth that was always on the edge of a smirk. The energy that made people lean toward him without realizing it. The kind that made girls think he was safe.
He wasn’t. Not really.
None of them were.
The four of them moved like they shared one brain. Fought like brothers. Protected each other like something worse was always lurking.
“Tell me again why we let Kane cook,” Sloane said, plucking a burnt piece of toast from the stack.
“Because I’m hot and can bench press a small car.” Kane smiled.
“Debatable,” she muttered.
“You just like when I lift shit.”
“God,” Lena groaned. “Can we not flirt until after I’ve had carbs?”
Trace remained still, eyes fixed on mine with the weight of everything unspoken.
“Coffee?” I asked him, voice quieter than I meant.
His gaze dropped to the mug in my hand. “You made it?”
“Yeah.”
“Then no.”
Rhett choked on a laugh, almost dropping a pan. “God,” he muttered. “Ya’ll don’t even try to be normal.”
Alden threw him a look, while Kane raised a brow, clearly waiting to see if I’d kill Trace where he stood—sipping his drink like he was watching a live-action soap opera.
I just smiled. “Still an asshole.”
Trace tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Still dramatic, Sunshine.”
“Okay!” Lena clapped her hands like a preschool teacher. “Let’s all sit down and be normal, yeah?”
“Define normal,” Rhett mumbled.
We squeezed around the big wooden table, Hemingway climbing into my lap like it was his assigned seat. I scratched behind his ears, trying not to stare at the boy who broke me. Or the boys who might be hiding more than anyone realized.
The room was loud, messy, familiar. But underneath the laughter and pancakes, something was shifting.
The lighter shifted in my hoodie pocket as I leaned forward. Just a tiny weight—but it felt like a secret.
Trace shifted, his fingers pressing hard into his forearm, rubbing over the ink as if it burned beneath the skin. Across the room, Alden mirrored the motion—sharper, tenser. Neither spoke. Rhett and Kane exchanged a glance. Brief. Weighted. Whatever passed between them felt older than words.
I dragged my thumbnail across the table's rim, half-listening. Restless. Watched.
They moved in step, dressed in civility, but everything about them warned—they weren’t built for peace.