Then Sam raises a brow. “Are we having a group hug or what? ’Cause if we are, I’m taking my shirt off. No one needs to feel these abs through cotton.”
Chace groans. “You’re the worst.”
Trey’s already got his arms out like he’s about to tackle someone. “Get in here, assholes.”
I laugh—real and raw and good—and before I know it, we’re in this awkward four-man huddle in the middle of the kitchen, arms slung over shoulders, too many elbows, someone’s deodorant aggressively minty—but none of that matters.
We’re not brothers by blood.
We’re something stronger.
Chosen. Forged. Unbreakable.
Chapter 7
Kayla
The hospital doors hiss open behind me like a final exhale, and for the first time in six weeks, I breathe in air that doesn’t smell like antiseptic and worry.
It’s crisp. Bright. Real.
Freedom.
Logan’s hand is warm around mine as we walk into the car park, the early morning sun casting long shadows over the asphalt. I cling tighter to his fingers like I’m scared this isn’t real, that I might blink and wake up to machines and white walls and the ache of forgetting.
But it is real.
He’s real.
Waiting at the curb is a black Dodge Charger—sleek, familiar. A ghost made metal. My steps falter, breath catching in my throat.
Braden’s car. Only it was finished, and in pristine condition.
I would know it anywhere. Even if I didn’t remember the details, my heart does.
Logan glances at me, reading my silence. “You okay?”
I nod slowly, but tears prick my eyes before I can stop them. “That’s his, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” He squeezes my hand. “Figured… maybe it’d feel like a piece of him could come home with us, too.”
The keys jingle in his palm as he opens the trunk, and we pack in my hospital bags—the only remnants of the worst and most important weeks of my life.
When I open the passenger door, the scents hit me first. Not just leather and old air freshener. There was something that tickled my nose with notes similar to my dad’s old cologne. Only there was more, something mandarin, and peppercorns maybe? sandalwood? There was no doubt that what was left behind was the scent of my twin brother Braden. Sunshine and gasoline. Mischief and music.
A lump forms in my throat as I spot his worn jacket tossed across the backseat. The one he never let anyone borrow. My fingers graze the sleeve, and I swear I feel the echo of his laugh in the silence.
I glance at the glovebox, almost scared to look, but curiosity wins. I pop it open.
Cassette tapes.
Stacked neatly, labeled in his messy scrawl.
Summer Vibes. Road Rage. Crybaby Mix (Mac—do not touch).
I let out a watery laugh, my vision blurring. “He was such an ass.”
Logan smiles, soft. “Yeah. But he loved you.”
