“Ingrid, good to see you.”
“Hi,” I whispered, giving him a small, hesitant wave.
I followed Tristian to his station and sat in the chair beside his workbench, pulling his sketchbook from my bag as he began the methodical process of cleaning his tools.
I tried to focus on the lines of his drawings, but my eavesdropping got the better of me as Kane moved toward us, his voice dropping into an urgent whisper.
“Tell me you didn’t fuck with Brandon again?”
Tristian didn’t look up, let out a slow sigh. “I did… but in my defense, he opened his mouth to Ingrid.” Side-eyeing me, he twisted toward Kane, and added in a very low undertone I suspect I wasn’t supposed to hear, “And he mentioned Darragh again.”
Kane’s shoulders slumped as he let out a frustrated breath.
“Jesus, man, I told you already. The fucker wants you to swing. Don’t take the bait. You need to be careful with him—”
“I know,” Tristian said, his voice clipped.
“And Darragh—”
Tristian’s head snapped up, a cold, predatory glare fixing on Kane that made even me want to shrink away. “We’ll talk about this later,” he snapped, effectively killing the conversation.
He wasn’t in for a shift, just to do some busywork at his station. Kane idly chatted between clients, steering clear of the Darragh subject. I kept on hearing his name around them… Who even was he?
Soon, Tristian was finished and he beckoned me outside, bidding Kane a short goodbye. I followed him out, my fingers instinctively brushing the back of his shirt as we walked to the car.
“I’d better get you home, doll. Got things to do.”
Things to do… with Darragh? I didn’t ask; just climbed in.
Once in the Mercedes, the silence was thick, but not uncomfortable. He kept his eyes on the road, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. My thoughts turned back over the altercation in the gym—and what Tristian had revealed to me afterward.
When we pulled onto my street, I braced myself for the sight of my father’s car. But the driveway was empty. A wave of relief washed over me.
“Want me to walk you up?” Tristian asked slowly, gaze fixed on the road ahead.
I gulped softly. “N-no… It’s okay. Thank you for taking me out today.”
He turned in his seat, his dark eyes searching mine with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. “You’d tell me if anything was wrong, wouldn’t you, doll?”
The question felt like a trap. I swallowed the lump in my throat, thinking of the bruises my father hid and the secrets Tristian was digging for. “I would…”
He leaned across the console, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of my head. I stepped out of the car, waving at my front door until his taillights disappeared around the corner.
Inside, the house was blissfully quiet. For the first time in weeks, with my parents both gone, I felt like I could breathe.
I looked at the kitchen and thought of Tristian—of his bruised knuckles and the way he’d talked about his mother. I wanted to do something for him. Something soft.
I pulled flour and sugar from the pantry, the sound of the whisk against the bowl soothing my frayed nerves.
I was just sliding the first tray of chocolate chip cookies into the oven, the kitchen starting to smell like warm vanilla, when the front door slammed.
The sound shattered the peace instantly.
My father stormed into the kitchen, his presence instantly suffocating the air, turning the warm room frigid.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he spat, his gaze snapping back to me. “Baking? Playing house while you ignore your responsibilities?”
“I was just—”
