Page 49 of Made for Mayhem

Now, I focused straight ahead, trying not to look.

We slowed as Ty turned onto the gravel drive, tires crunching beneath us. The road split ahead—one curve leading toward his house, the other disappearing into shadow at the front of the property.

I knew what was there without looking.

Not now.

The truck rolled past, headlights sweeping the trees instead, and I closed my eyes to keep my emotions in check.

When Ty killed the engine, I finally opened them again. Junie didn’t stir.

Rowdy waited for us on the front porch, his dark shape curled on the mat. He lifted his head and thumped his tail once, slow and satisfied we were home.

Without a word, Ty climbed out and opened the back door, unbuckling Junie with practiced care. She slumped against his chest, her rabbit dangling from one hand, and he carried her up the steps with ease.

Rowdy and I followed, feeling like I’d stepped into a routine I didn’t know existed.

Inside, Ty didn’t turn on any lights. He moved through the house as if he knew every creak, every shadow, straight down the hall and into Junie’s room.

Last night, exhaustion had blurred the details of her bedroom. Tonight, I noticed.

The walls were a soft, pale blue—her favorite color. Black-and-white frames hung above her bed: Rowdy mid-leap, eyes crossed; Uno’s tongue lolling to one side; Dolly caught mid-acrobatics, jumping down from the barn rafters.

This wasn’t just a cute kid’s room someone had thrown together in a hurry.

This was hers.

It was warm, intentional, and full of everything she loved.

Ty lowered her into bed and tucked the blankets around her in one smooth motion. She rolled onto her side, the rabbit clutched tight.

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Goodnight, bug.”

Her reply came thick with sleep. “Night, Ty.”

He clicked on a small nightlight by the dresser, soft purples and blues spinning across the ceiling in a galaxy of soothing colors. Junie sighed once and gave in to sleep.

When he turned around, I still stood in the doorway, watching him.

“You love her,” I said softly.

“I love her,” he answered. No hesitation. No qualifiers.

My chest squeezed at the admission, and the truth settled heavy and undeniable.

Violet hadn’t chosen Ty as Junie’s guardian because he was convenient. Or close. Or safe on paper.

She’d chosen him because Junie deserved to be loved like this—without conditions, without uncertainty.

And standing in this room, it was impossible to argue with her.

Ty pulled the door mostly shut, but left it cracked. He jerked his chin toward the kitchen, and I followed on quiet feet.

Neither of us said anything while he filled the kettle, set it on the burner, and pulled down a jar of loose tea. I just watched him move, noticing the tense set of his shoulders, the tic of his jaw.

Steam curled between us as he poured the water, then slid a mug across the counter.

“Chamomile,” he said. “Figured you could use it.”