Noah checks the doors to make sure they’re locked and makes his way over.

I pop up off the floor. “Help me?”

He takes one end of the garland, and I take the other, the ache in my arm growing stronger because the aspirin is wearing off. We lift the decoration and lay it over the mantel, the whole thing covering the ten-foot length. Noah backs away, letting me fluff and adjust it, and I bend over, swiping the wreath off the floor. Holding it by the hook, I hand it to Noah and gesture to the door.

He hangs it, and I stand back, admiring all my handiwork. If only I had some red ribbon to add. Christmas is in a few weeks, and for the first time ever, I’m into it.

But when I look at Jake, his eyebrows are raised like he’s expecting something more to happen for my hard work all night. Like for the twigs to start glowing or something.

I retreat a little, chewing the corner of my mouth. “If you don’t like it…”

It’s just a little holiday spirit. It’s not like I sewed ruffles onto his drapes.

But he rises from his seat and brings me in, kissing my forehead. “It’s beautiful, Tiernan. I love it.”

I smile. “Good.” I nod once. “You don’t want me getting bored.”

He laughs, but Noah grabs me, pulling me down onto his lap on the couch. “If you need things to do…”

He tries to tickle me, but I bolt out of his lap.

Jake swats Noah on the head as he heads to the kitchen.

“What?” he blurts out. “That’s not what I meant.”

Yeah, right. He’s trying not to laugh, but his smile is devilish. I can’t help but want to smile, too. I look away, so he can’t see.

When I do, though, Kaleb still sits in the chair, two deep creases between his eyebrows as he stares at the television but doesn’t watch.

A chill runs up my legs, bare in my silk sleep shorts, and I pull down my matching sweater, covering the patch of stomach against the cold.

“Here,” Noah says. I turn, and he rises from the couch, taking my hand. “Come on.”

Jake disappears into the shop, closing the door behind him as Noah and I walk into the dark kitchen. He backs me up to the sink and pulls out a chair, sitting down as he reaches under my sweater.

“Gimme your arm,” he tells me.

I slip my arm out, and he pulls over the first-aid kit we left sitting out on the counter, and begins unwrapping the bandage as I hold the sweater over my bare breast.

I watch him clean my wound, his worried eyes darting to me as I hiss. The swelling has gone down, but any pressure still feels like a hot poker in my skin.

His touch is gentle, and we fall quiet, me chewing nervously on the inside of my lip. He’s only quiet when he has things to say.

“I’m glad you’re standing up for your parents,” he says in a quiet voice. “Even if they might not deserve it.”

I watch him, his unusually sincere tone all the more poignant because it almost never happens.

“I know I’d do the same for my dad,” he explains. “But he would deserve it.”

I’m glad he realizes that.

He tosses the wipe down and laughs bitterly. “I’m such a little shit. He’s been all alone these years. Doing everything alone. Fighting for this family alone.” He shakes his head, more to himself. “We haven’t really ever taken care of each other. Until now.”

I remember Jake’s surprise the other morning at Noah helping out without an argument. They’ve always taken care of each other. Food, shelter, work… I guess he means something else. Like how I’m happy and not thinking about my past. When you’re cared for, you care for others.

Noah’s breathing turns shallow, and he still won’t look at me. “What happens when you leave?” he asks.

But it’s more like he’s thinking out loud. Will they still be invested in each other as a family?

And then it occurs to me… What happens to me when I leave? This has become a home.

They’ve become my home.

He wraps a clean bandage around my arm and stands up, hovering over me.

But he still won’t fucking look at me, and my eyes start to sting. I’m not leaving for months. I don’t want to think about this now.

I turn his chin toward me, and he immediately comes in, dropping his forehead to mine.

“What if I never let you leave?” he murmurs, his breath tickling my lips.

My chin trembles.

“What if…” His arms circle my waist, and he pulls me in tight. “What if a lot changed before the summer?”

I listen.

“What if…”

He grabs my bottom lip between his teeth, making me suck in a breath before he releases it.

“What if we pumped you until you were pregnant?” he whispers.

“To keep me here?” I challenge.

Knocking me up on purpose?

But he shakes his head. “To keep you with me.”

I narrow my eyes.

I open my mouth to speak, but I don’t know what to say. Noah is who I should be with. If anyone. He’s young, kind, attentive… He talks to me. I can grow with him.

He’s good.

So why don’t I tell him that?

I take his face in my hands, not sure what I want to say, but before I have a chance to speak, a dark form appears behind him.

I look over his shoulder, seeing Kaleb. I drop my hands from his brother.

Noah turns, and we both see Kaleb’s gaze on fire as he looks between us. He reaches over, I almost wince, bracing myself for him to grab me or hit Noah, but he simply takes my hand and holds my eyes as he calmly pulls me over to him.

I go, heat instantly traveling up my arm from where his fingers hold me.

He rubs a tendril of my hair between his fingers as he looks into my eyes.

I open my mouth to speak, but I don’t know what I want to say. He’s young, not kind, and not attentive. He doesn’t talk to me, and I can’t grow with him.

Kaleb’s not good.

But he’s the one I want. All to myself. Right now.

In the shower, dark and just us, with his arms around me.

Stupid girl.

His dark eyes dart to his brother, and he jerks his chin, ordering Noah away.

I hear Noah shift on his feet. “You okay with this?” he asks me.

Without taking my eyes off Kaleb, I nod.

I’m sorry, Noah. Some lessons can only be learned the hard way.

Noah lets out a sigh and walks into the shop to join his father as Kaleb threads my fingers through his, leading me up the stairs. I’m sore, I’m tired, and I feel guilty, like I should be confused about a lot right now, but I’m not. All that matters is the next five minutes. The next hour. However long I’m with him.

Instead of leading me to his room, he pushes the door open to my room and pulls me inside, swinging me past him. I stumble as he releases my hand, stopping myself.

What the hell?

I spin around and look at him standing there. He looks to my bed, his eyes suddenly hard, and jerks his chin, ordering me.

What?

It takes a minute to figure out what he wants.

“Sleep?” I ask.

He wants me to go to bed?

“It’s barely nine o’clock,” I argue.

He points his finger at me and then the bed, ordering me again, this time with a scowl on his face.