Page 110 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

My heart thunders. Wild, insane, perfect… I never want it to end.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Wayne

It’s been weird at the house for the last week or so.

Off. A tool drawer left half open. Nothing broken, but every step is a reminder that something isn’t where it used to be.

I thought I could handle it. That’s the part that keeps circling back.

When Fletcher and Rex and I talked it through, when it was just words and hypotheticals and a couple of drinks dulling the sharp edges, I told myself I was fine. That I was being rational. Open-minded. That whatever this thing is between us and June, I could compartmentalize it like everything else in my life.

I was wrong.

I’ve been avoiding them for the last couple of days. I leave earlier. Come back later. Find reasons to be in the garage, or outside, or fixing something that absolutely does not need fixing.

June is in the kitchen when I come down, humming softly under her breath while she packs Evan’s lunch, even though he isn’t here. Muscle memory, I guess. Care. Habit. The things that sneak up on you.

She looks up when she hears me.

“Morning,” she says, smiling as if everything is normal.

It almost is.

“Morning,” I answer, pouring coffee I don’t really want.

We move around each other carefully, not touching, not avoiding either. The space between us feels intentional now. A decision we’re both making without naming it.

“How’d you sleep?” she asks.

“Fine,” I lie.

I slept light. I always do. But the dreams have been worse lately. Less about work. More about memories I don’t invite anymore.

Her back is to me as she rinses a mug, hair mussed, soft, curling strands at the nape of her neck. I have the irrational urge to reach out and stroke them.

I don’t.

“So,” she says, glancing over her shoulder. “You heading in early?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a pause.

“You okay?” she asks gently.

I think about answering honestly. About telling her I don’t know how to do this. About admitting that every time I see her smile at Fletcher or hear Rex make her laugh, something tightens in my chest that I don’t know how to loosen without hurting someone.

Without hurting her.

“I’m good,” I say instead. “Just tired.”

She nods, accepting it even though I’m not sure she believes me.

That makes it worse.

I grab my jacket, keys heavy in my hand. At the door, I stop.