Page 30 of Coach's Temptation

The dining room hasn’t changed since I was a kid. Same oak table, same floral curtains framing the windows, same antique chandelier that flickers every time the heat kicks on.

Even the faint scent of lemon polish lingers in the air, a reminder that my mother keeps this place inpristinecondition, unlike certain people who apparently let ceilings collapse in inherited apartments.

I press my fork into the mashed potatoes, watching the gravy pool at the edges as their voices drift in and out.

“Speaking of leaks, you still haven’t fixed the leaky faucet, Harold.”

“For the last time, it’s fine.”

“Fine? The drip is driving me insane.”

“Then wear earplugs.”

My mother gasps, offended beyond belief. “I shouldn’t have to wear earplugs in my own home.”

Dad takes a slow sip of his beer. “And yet, here we are.”

He shoots me a wink, clearly mistaken that I care about their arguing enough to side with him. I blink down at my plate, chewing slowly, pretending I don’t exist.

This issonormal. Too normal.

Sitting in my childhood seat, surrounded by the same walls, the same voices, the same argument they’ve probably been having for the pastthirtyyears.

All of it makes my chest feel tight.

I glance at the framed photos lining the sideboard. A younger version of my parents on their wedding day, all smiles and champagne flutes. A photo of me at five years old, clutching a stuffed bunny with a toothy grin.

The past preserved in pretty little frames.

But in real time?

The reality is a roast dinner with two people who can’t stand each other but refuse to do anything about it. I scrape my fork against my plate, zoning out as they now launch into a heated debate about laundry cycles.

Fucking hell.

I don’t want this.

I don’t wantthiskind of relationship. A life of settling, of tolerating, of barely scraping by on obligation.

I push my plate away, appetite officially gone.

My eyes drift to the overnight bag sitting by the front door, slumped over like it’s given up on life. Damp clothes, a toothbrush, and the overwhelming sense that my life is a complete and utter disaster.

Jesus.Thisis where I’ve ended up.

Homeless. Couch surfing. Staring down the very real possibility of sleeping in my car like a rejected contestant on some survival reality show.

And the worst part?

I have an out.

Hunter Brody, standing in that hallway, muscles flexed, jaw tight, voice a low command.

"You're staying with me."

I shove my fork into the mashed potatoes, a little harder than necessary.

“So,” my dad says casually, cutting into his roast. “Guess this wouldn’t have happened if you’d settled down with a nice guy by now.”

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