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Her eyebrows lift in disbelief. “Just like that?”

“I can be reasonable.”

“I doubt that.”

“You’ve known me for five minutes.”

“And I’m already confident.”

I laugh, and this time she lets slip the barest hint of a grin before wiping it clean.

Good to know. She might be annoyed, but she isn't immune.

She points past me into the duplex. “Volume down.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She turns and heads across the narrow shared porch. Her boots click against the damp wood, red hair swaying past her waist. She catches me watching when she reaches her front door; I don’t look away, just give her a two-finger salute.

She shakes her head, mutters something under her breath, and slips inside.

The lock clicks shut, leaving me standing in the doorway with the quiet hum of the coastal fog rolling through the trees.

Well. Unpacking just got a lot more interesting.

I step back inside and pull the door shut.

Two guitar cases lean against a stack of taped cardboard boxes. Another sits open near the couch, half-covered by laundry because the dresser I ordered won’t be here until Thursday. Half my kitchen is still boxed up, labeled in my mother’s neat, inescapable handwriting because she decided I couldn’t just open the boxes to see what was inside.

I’ve been back in the States for eight days.

Six months in Europe opening for Macklin Row was the biggest ride Hollow North has ever had. Paris, Amsterdam, Berlin, Rome. Stages where the crowds swallowed us whole, singing lyrics back to us in accents we could barely understand. The first time that happened, I almost missed the transition into the chorus.

I want that feeling again. As much of it as I can get.

Coming home didn’t cure the restlessness. But after half a year of tour buses, shared backstage showers, and sleeping with a diesel engine rumbling beneath my bunk, having my own space feels like a luxury.

My own fridge. My own bed. No Conlin texting at 3:00 a.m. because he forgot time zones exist.

I crashed at Mom and Dad’s for the first week, which was great until day four, when Dad started asking why every guitar I owned was positioned as a tripping hazard, and Mom started leaving classified clippings for rental duplexes on the kitchen island.

By day six, I signed the lease.

Redwood Point is home. The duplex is ten minutes from the family marina and fifteen from my brothers, but isolated enough that no one shows up unannounced before my first cup of coffee.

Except, apparently, the girl next door.

I grab a box marked KITCHEN and set it on the counter.

My phone buzzes from somewhere under the pile of clothes on the couch. I dig it out to find the family thread lighting up.

CONLIN: Any baby yet?

BRIAR: Yes. We had him and forgot to tell you.

CONLIN: That's rude.

LACHLIN: Stop texting her. She needs to rest.