Page 52 of Twins for the Mountain Daddies

A soft, muffled sniffle.

The sound causes my heart to thud against my ribs like it’s trying to break free.

“What’s wrong?” The words come out rough, demanding.

She jumps, startled, wiping her face with the back of her hand before turning to mask her eyes from me. But I've seen enough. There's a rawness there that can't be hidden.

"Nothing," she tries, voice cracking like thin ice underfoot. "Just a bad dream."

Liar.

She’s shutting me out, and I should let her. I should grab my beer and go.

But I don’t.

I grab a chair and sit beside her, close enough that our knees almost touch. Close enough that she can feel I’m not going anywhere.

"Tell me," I push, quieter this time.

"It’s silly," she whispers, still not meeting my gaze. "You wouldn’t understand."

"Try me," I insist, because hell, I’m not leaving her like this. Not when everything inside me screams that she needs someone.

Her eyes finally lift, locking with mine. And there it is—the truth she’s trying to bury. The kind of pain no dream can cause.

It's real. It's deep.

And it guts me to see it.

But then, just like that, it’s gone. She blinks, shakes her head, and forces a small, dismissive smile.

“It’s nothing, Hank,” she says lightly, like she didn’t just have tears in her eyes. “Just a stupid dream. Doesn’t matter.”

Liar.

She brushes her hands over her thighs like she can wipe the moment away, then stretches her arms over her head with a yawn. “I should probably get back to bed.”

But I don’t let her.

Before she can stand, I scoop her up effortlessly, one arm under her knees, the other around her back.

Her breath hitches, hands flying to my shoulders. "Hank—what are you?—?"

I don’t answer. Just walk.

Back to my room.

This is a terrible idea. Worst idea I’ve ever had.

I tell myself it’s just to make sure she sleeps. That’s it.

But deep down, I already know the truth.

The door to my room swings open with a nudge of my foot. I carry her over the threshold, feeling like I'm crossing some invisible line. A line I can't ever uncross.

She clings to me, and I lower us both down, careful not to jar her. Ivy curls into my side, a perfect fit in the crook of my arm. I lay back, bringing her along, our bodies aligning with an ease that scares the hell out of me.

"Thank you, Hank," she murmurs, her breath warm against my skin.

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