Page 63 of Click of Fate

The words blur for a second.

I reread the letter twice, then again. Harper’s going to freak. She loves this house. Lilly finally stopped asking if they were going to move again. And now… this.

Buying a house? That’s not something I do. That’s what settled people do. People with plans and roots and a 5-year trajectory. I have camera lenses and backup SD cards, not a mortgage calculator.

I stare at the page like it might offer a second option. A loophole. A trapdoor to duck out of this life decision.

But there’s nothing.

Just a price, an agent’s contact info, and a deadline.

I know Harper is in no place—financially—to buy this place. She will crunch numbers and take some time to figure out that she can’t afford it. But I want her to have this place. Maybe I have options. Maybe buying a house doesn’t mean I have to put down roots.

But damn it; I don’t own property. I’ve never had the desire to.

I toss the envelope on the table and immediately feel guilty. Like it’s not just paper—it’s proof that I’m not cut out for permanence.

Later that afternoon, I try to shake it off, but the spiral has me in a chokehold. I half edit a gallery, forget I’ve already brewed coffee (twice), and find myself pacing the living room with no real destination.

Eventually, I grab my phone. I hesitate for a second, thumb hovering over his name in my recent list.

I don’t text. I call.

It rings once. Twice.

Then his deep voice flows through the speaker, warm and familiar and way too easy on the nerves I’ve been trying to bottle up today.

“Hey, Trouble.”

My mouth tugs at the nickname, even though I’m not in the mood for it.

“Hey,” I say, voice quieter than I intend. “What are you doing?”

“Recovering,” he replies without missing a beat. “Tiny Tot climbers. A new class Maddie made us open up. These four-year-olds have zero fear. And zero filter. One of them asked if I live at the gym because I’m poor.”

I huff out a laugh. “Kids are brutal.”

“They are. But the honesty’s impressive. You okay?”

I pause. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

There’s a long beat of silence.

“That was one word,” he says.

“So?”

“No snark. No sass. Definitely not fine.”

I close my eyes, leaning my head back against the couch cushion. His voice is like a hug I didn’t ask for but can’t bring myself to reject.

“You ever get news that’s… not bad but also feels like someone just handed you a very complicated puzzle with no edge pieces?”

He doesn’t respond right away. He’s good like that. Waits out the silence. Lets me get there myself.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Once or twice. You want to talk about it?”

I press my fingers to my forehead. “Not yet. I just… needed to hear a voice that wasn’t connected to contracts, deadlines, or some life-altering responsibility I didn’t ask for.”

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