The slam of the front door tore through the quiet house like a gunshot.
Cassandra Carter, who had been perched sideways on the staircase with a paperback dangling loosely in her hand, jerked upright. Her heart jumped before her mind could catch up, and instinctively, her gaze snapped toward the hallway.
"Michael?" she called, already knowing the answer.
A groan—raw, frustrated, almost animal—answered her from the entryway. Heavy footsteps followed, moving with purpose and fury as Michael Carter, her brother stormed past the stairs and into the living room. His football jacket hung halfway off his shoulders, helmet abandoned somewhere near the door, his jaw clenched so tight she could almost hear his teeth grind.
Saturday evening. Football night. And whatever had happened out there had followed him home.
Cassandra closed her book slowly and stood, smoothing her palms against her shorts. She waited a few seconds before descending the stairs, years of learned caution guiding her steps. Michael had always worn his emotions on his sleeve, but when he was angry, the air around him sharpened.
She found him standing in the middle of the living room, pacing. His hands curled into fists, unclenched, then clenched again.
"Okay," she said carefully, leaning against the doorframe. "What happened?"
He stopped abruptly and turned on her. His eyes were blazing, cheeks flushed, chest rising too fast.
"Guess who I met today after the game."
Cassandra blinked. "I don't know. Who?"
He let out a humorless laugh, the sound brittle. "Take a rough guess."
She studied him, searching her memory for names that could cause this kind of reaction. There were many ghosts in Michael's past—old teammates, old friends, old wounds—but only a few could still do this to him.
"I really don't—"
"Cayenne."
The name left his mouth like a curse.
Cassandra's stomach dipped.
In her mind, uninvited and immediate, a picture formed. Cayenne. Cayenne the beauty. Cayenne with her perfect smile and effortless cruelty. Cayenne who never seemed to break a sweat while breaking hearts.
Oh my gosh, Cayenne, she thought dryly, the sarcasm masking the faint unease curling in her chest.
She forced her face into neutrality. "Cayenne? What happened to Cayenne?"
Michael dragged a hand through his hair. "She's dating Max Richardson now."
The words hit the room and stayed there.
Cassandra stiffened. "Max Richardson?"
"Yes!" he almost shouted. "The same Max. The guy she cheated on me with. Can you believe it?"
His voice cracked on the last word, fury and humiliation tangled so tightly she couldn't separate them. He turned away from her, pacing again, as if the walls themselves had betrayed him.
"And that's not even all," he continued, his voice dropping into something darker. "We got talking. You know how it goes. And I found out—the whole crew's coming back. Everyone. Everyone we thought we'd left behind two years ago."
Cassandra's breath caught.
"Everyone?" she echoed.
Michael stopped again. Slowly, he turned to face her. "Even the Hale family."
Her throat closed.
She swallowed, hard, the name slamming into her like a door she'd spent two years keeping locked. The Hale family. The past she had carefully folded away, buried under routine and quiet and pretending she was fine.
And him.
The one boy she had loved in silence. The one secret she had never confessed. The one memory she had never allowed herself to unpack fully.
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
Michael watched her closely, something flickering across his face. "You okay?"
She recovered fast—too fast. A skill she had perfected.
"Yeah," she said, stepping forward and pulling him into a hug before he could ask anything else.
For a moment, he hesitated. Then his arms came around her, heavy and familiar. He rested his head against the crown of her hair, breathing out slowly, like some of the rage was finally leaving his body.
"It's just a lot," he muttered.
"I know," she whispered. "Go freshen up. You look like you wrestled the field itself."
A corner of his mouth lifted despite everything. He pulled back slightly, looking down at her with tired affection. "I'll take a shower. Maybe coffee after?"
"I'll bring it to you."
He smiled properly this time. "You're the best, Cass."
She watched him disappear down the hallway before she let herself exhale.
The kitchen lights hummed softly as she moved through the space on autopilot. Coffee grounds. Kettle. Cups. Her hands knew the routine even if her mind didn't. She poured a glass of wine for herself without thinking, added cookies and sandwiches to a tray, the motions mechanical.
One name refused to leave her head.
Lucas Hale.
She pressed her lips together and reached for a notebook and pen, scribbling a short note for Michael—words of encouragement, reassurance, love. Things she could give him freely, easily.
When she reached his room, the door was closed but not fully. Voices spilled out—his voice, sharp and angry, saying things he would never normally say. Words she pretended not to hear.
She set the tray quietly on his bedside table and left without knocking.
In her own room, Cassandra lay back against the bed and stared at the ceiling, arms folded across her chest. She tried to sleep. She really did. She counted breaths. Closed her eyes. Told herself this was nothing.
Minutes passed. Then more.
Sleep never came.
Eventually, she gave up.