The floorboards creaked under my suitcase as I stepped into the farmhouse, dust swirling in the late afternoon light. I hadn’t been here in eight years—not since Mom and I stopped speaking. And now, standing in the hallway, I could hear voices from the kitchen. One was hers. The other… deeper, smoother, impossibly familiar.

Then he appeared in the doorway.

Eason.

Taller now, jawline sharp enough to cut glass, wearing a tailored shirt like he’d just walked out of a Fortune 500 meeting. His eyes widened slightly, then softened with something unreadable. "You’re really here," he said.

I forced a smile. "Just passing through."

That night, I went to The Hollow to forget. Whiskey burned my throat, but not as much as the memory of my ex’s voice saying, It didn’t mean anything. Then some guy got too close, too handsy. Before I could react, Eason was there—pulling him back, standing between us like a shield. "She’s not interested," he said, voice low and dangerous.

We drove home in silence. Now, in the dim glow of the porch light, he turns to me. "You don’t have to pretend you’re fine."

I look up, and for a second, I see it—the same ache in his eyes that I carry. Alone. Hurt. Wanting.

He takes a step closer.

My breath catches.

This is wrong. He’s my stepbrother. We grew up in the same house.

But when he reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from my face, I don’t pull away.

And that’s the moment I know—I’m already falling.