Chapter 8: Penny

I stand next to Mrs. Hayes, sliding plates carefully into the dishwasher while the boys’ voices drift from the living room, blending with the sound of the game playing on the TV.

Usually, Tyler would be the one here, wiping down counters half-heartedly, sneaking extra rolls when he thought no one was looking. But tonight, Mrs. Hayes had smiled and told him to go enjoy his brother’s return, and he hadn’t hesitated to abandon his usual duties, disappearing with a quick kiss to my temple and a muttered promise to owe me.

"I’m so full," I say, laughing lightly as I scrape a dish into the trash before sliding it into the machine. "I seriously might roll home. Dinner was amazing. I need to steal that green bean recipe from Mr. Hayes."

Mrs. Hayes laughs too, shaking her head as she rinses a casserole dish. "Oh, don’t give him too much credit. He was on Pinterest all morning trying to figure out what to make last minute when Asher called."

At the mention of his name, my hands slow.

It’s automatic, the way my shoulders tense, like my body recognizes the name before my brain can decide how to feel about it.

Mrs. Hayes notices.

She sets the dish down carefully, drying her hands on a towel, and leans a hip against the counter, studying me in that soft, sharp way that mothers have.

"I’m sorry," she says, voice low enough not to carry over the hum of the TV. "For the way he spoke to you earlier."

I blink at her, caught off guard by the directness, the apology I didn’t even know I needed until it was sitting there between us.

"You don’t have to apologize," I say quickly, the words tumbling out, but Mrs. Hayes just gives me a knowing look.

"I do," she says. "You didn’t deserve that."

I look down, tracing a crack in the counter with my fingertip, unsure what to say.

"It’s not personal, Penny," she continues gently. "He’s like that with most people. Cold. Short. He’s been that way for a while now."

I nod slowly, the words sinking into my chest, heavy and uncomfortable. "It’s just..." I pause, frowning a little, searching for the right words. "You’re all so kind. So lively. I guess it’s hard to understand."

Mrs. Hayes smiles, but there’s something sad in it, something that makes my throat tighten.

"His job’s not easy," she says. "Not the kind you leave at the door when you come home. He’s probably seen things the rest of us can’t even imagine."

I nod again, feeling a rush of guilt twist in my stomach.

I hadn't thought about that. Not really.

I’d only seen the hardness, the clipped words, the way his eyes seemed to strip me down to something smaller than I wanted to be.

I hadn’t thought about what had built those walls.

Mrs. Hayes reaches out and squeezes my hand, the simple gesture grounding me.

"Be patient with him," she says softly. "It’s not you. It’s just... life."

I smile, small but real, squeezing her hand back. "I can do that."

She pats my hand once more and steps back toward the sink. "Go join the boys. I’ll finish up here."

I hesitate for a second, the polite thing to do pressing against my ribs, but she waves me off with a smile, already turning back to the dishes.

So I wipe my hands on a towel and slip out of the kitchen, following the familiar murmur of voices and the muted flicker of the TV.

The living room is cozy, dim except for the blue light spilling from the television.

Tyler is sprawled across the couch, feet kicked up, a soda can perched precariously on the armrest beside him. Mr. Hayes is in his recliner, shouting good-natured insults at the referees every few minutes, his voice filling the space with easy energy.

And then there’s Asher.

Sitting in the farthest corner of the room, one leg stretched out, one arm draped over the back of the chair like he’s not really relaxing, just waiting. Watching.

He doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t even look my way when I enter.

But somehow, it feels like his presence shifts the air anyway, pulling it tighter around my ribs.

I tuck myself onto the edge of the couch beside Tyler, pulling my knees up and wrapping my arms loosely around them, trying not to take up too much space, trying not to notice the way Asher’s silence is louder than anything else in the room.

Tyler grins and reaches over, grabbing my ankle and pulling one of my feet into his lap.

"You’ve been on your feet all day," he says, pressing his thumbs gently into my arch through the thin material of my stockings.

I laugh, swatting at his arm half-heartedly. "I’m fine. Seriously."

Mr. Hayes chuckles. "Let the boy pamper you. Your poor feet are probably begging for mercy after the way that professor of yours pushes you."

I laugh again, real and easy, leaning back against the cushions, and for a few minutes, I let myself sink into it—the safety, the familiarity, the way Tyler’s hands are careful and soothing, the way the living room smells like cinnamon and old wood and something comfortable and real.

But even through it all, I feel it.

The weight of him.

Of Asher.

Silent. Watchful.

Like a storm cloud nobody else can see.

The TV blares, Tyler and Mr. Hayes tossing commentary back and forth, laughing when one of the teams fumbles a play.

But Asher doesn’t say a word.

I risk a glance at him once, just a quick flick of my eyes, and find him not looking at the TV at all.

He’s staring at the floor, jaw tight, shoulders stiff under the soft fabric of his Henley, like he’s sitting on a wire pulled so tight it might snap if anyone touched it wrong.

I pull my gaze away, heart beating a little too fast.

After a while, I slip my foot free from Tyler’s lap and stand up, smoothing my cardigan.

"I’m gonna find the bathroom," I say, not looking at anyone in particular.

Tyler mumbles something distracted, eyes glued to the replay flashing across the screen.

I leave the room quietly, following the stairs up by memory, my fingers trailing along the wall for balance.

The bathroom is small and warm, the mirror fogged slightly from the heat still trapped in the house.

I close the door behind me and lean against it, closing my eyes.

What is wrong with me?

Why does being near him make my skin feel too tight, like I’m wearing a sweater two sizes too small?

It’s just newness, I tell myself firmly.

Just the unfamiliarity of someone new in a space that’s always been safe.

I’ll get used to it.

I have to.

He’s Tyler’s brother.

This is Tyler’s family.

I’m not going to let one cold stare undo that.

I splash a little water on my wrists, pat my face dry, and smooth my hands over my cardigan, breathing out slowly.

Be kind. Be patient.

That’s what Mrs. Hayes said.

I can do that.

I reach for the light switch, flick it off, and step backward out of the bathroom.

And slam straight into a wall.

Only—

It’s not a wall.

It’s a chest.

A broad, unyielding chest that smells faintly of soap and something darker underneath.

I stumble back a step, blinking up.

And up.

And up.

Until I meet dark eyes.

Asher.

Standing there, barely a foot away, looking down at me with that same unreadable expression, his arms loose at his sides, his body completely still except for the slight tilt of his head, studying me like he can see right through every polite smile and shaky breath.

"S-sorry," I stammer, stepping back instinctively.

He says nothing.

Not a word.

The silence stretches out between us, thick and taut.

I fidget, smoothing my hands down the sides of my jeans, desperate for something to do, somewhere to look that isn’t straight into those eyes that feel like they’re picking me apart.

When he still doesn’t speak, I duck my head and move past him, my heart hammering so hard I’m sure he can hear it.

I make it down the stairs and back into the living room only to find it... empty.

The couch is deserted.

The TV still flickers, muted now.

Voices drift from the kitchen—Mr. and Mrs. Hayes, talking softly, laughing about something I can't catch.

But Tyler’s gone.

I frown, glancing around, confused.

Before I can call out, a voice from behind me cuts through the quiet.

"He’s gone."

I turn sharply.

Asher leans against the bannister at the top of the stairs, one hand wrapped around the rail like he’s barely restraining himself from walking away altogether.

"What?" I ask, throat dry.

"He got a text," Asher says, voice flat. "Something about a party. Said he’d be back later."

I stare at him, the words not quite landing.

Tyler... left?

In the middle of a family night?

Left me here?

I pull my phone from my pocket, heart sinking, but there’s nothing.

No text.

No missed call.

Nothing.

I stand there for a second longer, feeling a hundred things all at once and none of them good.

I paste a smile on my face, tuck my phone away, and walk toward the kitchen, thanking Mr. and Mrs. Hayes quietly for dinner, for everything, ignoring the way Mrs. Hayes looks a little too closely at my face, the way Mr. Hayes ruffles my hair like I’m still a little kid.

Then I grab my bag and my shoes from the living room, pulling my cardigan tighter around me.

I’m almost at the door when I feel it again.

The weight of his gaze.

I turn, swallowing hard.

"It was nice to meet you," I say to Asher, forcing the words out even though they taste like metal on my tongue.

He doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t move.

Doesn’t blink.

I nod once, almost to myself, and slip out the door into the night.

The air is sharp and cold against my skin, and my cardigan is no match for it, but I start walking anyway, shoving my hands into my pockets, keeping my head down.

The cold bites through the fabric, through my skin, through the brittle shell I’m trying to hold together, but I keep walking, my thoughts unraveling faster than I can catch them, a mess of hurt and confusion and something else.

Something I don’t want to name yet.