Chapter 7: Penny

The doorway of the living room is crowded with warm light and the low murmur of voices.

And there he is.

At first, my brain tries to file him under guy.

Just another guy hanging around, probably one of Tyler’s friends, or a neighbor, or—

No.

Not a guy.

A man.

Leaning against the doorframe like he owns the space and resents it at the same time, arms crossed tight over his chest, the muscles in his forearms flexing against the sleeves of a black Henley pulled snug over his frame.

He's massive.

Not just tall—tall.

Tall enough that I have to crane my neck slightly to meet his eyes.

If Tyler’s six feet, this guy has to be six-three, maybe taller, and built like every linebacker coach's fantasy. Wide shoulders, thick arms, a chest so solid it looks like the shirt might just give up and split at the seams if he breathes too hard.

And his hair—dark. Almost black. Wavy, messy in a way that looks unintentional but somehow still perfect, brushing just past his jawline.

He’s staring at me.

Not smiling.

Not curious.

Not welcoming.

Studying me with a harsh, cool expression that makes my stomach twist a little without permission.

No friendliness in his eyes.

No warmth.

Just... calculation.

Tyler’s voice cracks the air between us.

"Wait—what?! Bro!"

He surges forward and throws an arm around the man’s shoulders in a loose hug.

The man barely reacts. Just shifts slightly under the weight, tolerating it more than returning it.

I blink at them.

Bro?

"Bro?" I echo, my voice a little higher than I mean it to be.

Tyler grins, clueless and happy as ever. "Yeah! That’s my older brother."

I stare at him, then at the man still standing there, solid and unsmiling.

This is Tyler’s brother?

I knew he had a brother in the Navy. He mentioned it once or twice, always vaguely, the way you talk about someone who might as well live on a different planet.

But I never pictured this.

Where Tyler is all sun and easy smiles, this man is shadow.

Tyler’s lean and athletic—wiry muscle and speed.

This guy is heavier, harder, carved from something rougher.

Tyler’s brown hair is always messy, boyish.

This man’s hair is darker than midnight and falls in soft waves that brush just past his chin, framing a face that’s all sharp lines and sharp eyes.

And Tyler—Tyler's warm.

This man looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.

I shake off the weird tension, snap myself back to reality, and step forward, summoning a polite smile.

"Nice to meet y—"

"You’re late," he says flatly, cutting me off.

I stop mid-sentence.

Tyler’s parents laugh awkwardly behind me, the sound brittle.

I blink at him, thrown completely off balance. "Uh—"

"I mean," he says, voice low and clipped, "is that how you thank people for inviting you over?"

I stare at him.

Is he serious?

Tyler’s mom swoops in, laughing a little too brightly. "What my son Asher is trying to say is—we missed you, Penny. We’re so happy you’re here!"

She grabs my hand lightly and tugs me toward the kitchen.

I let her, my cheeks burning.

Tyler catches my other hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze, tugging me gently forward.

I try to follow—but I have to step awkwardly around Asher’s massive frame because he doesn't move out of the way.

Not even an inch.

I slide past him, my shoulder brushing just slightly against his arm, and it’s like passing a statue—hard, unmoving, cold.

I don’t dare look up at him again.

The kitchen is warm and golden, and the table is practically groaning under the weight of food.

A huge roast chicken, crispy and golden. A giant bowl of buttery mashed potatoes flecked with herbs. Roasted green beans with almonds. Freshly baked rolls steaming in a basket. A colorful salad bursting with cranberries and crumbled feta. Bowls of gravy and rich-smelling sauces.

It looks like Thanksgiving exploded across the table.

I turn to Mrs. Hayes, still trying to recover my balance. "This looks amazing. Thank you so much for having me."

She beams at me. "You’re always welcome here, sweet girl."

We all shuffle to our seats, Tyler pulling me into the chair next to him.

Asher takes the seat at the far end of the table, the furthest possible point from me.

Good.

Maybe if we have enough food between us, I’ll forget the way his eyes felt like a weight on my skin.

Tyler is practically vibrating with energy, still smiling like a little kid at Christmas.

"I seriously had no idea you were coming home, man!" Tyler says, grabbing a roll.

"It wasn’t planned," his brother—Asher—says in a voice so clipped it could slice glass.

Tyler doesn’t seem to notice the edge. Or maybe he just ignores it, used to it.

Mr. Hayes chuckles as he carves the chicken. "He just got in this morning. Three years straight without a real break, and they finally cut him loose for a little while."

Three years.

Three years of combat boots and blood and whatever horrors Navy SEALs deal with that they don’t talk about.

I glance up—and catch Asher already looking at me.

I swallow and look away fast.

"Wow," I manage. "That’s... really impressive."

Asher just shrugs like it’s nothing.

I fumble for something else to say. "How’s the Navy?"

He sets his knife and fork down with deliberate slowness.

"Not allowed to disclose anything," he says coolly.

The silence after is heavy.

I nod, trying to act normal, even as the tension presses against my ribs.

Thankfully, Mrs. Hayes jumps in.

"So how’s ballet, Penny? Gala prep must be in full swing!"

I latch onto the topic like a lifeline.

"It’s going good," I say. "Stressful, but... good. The auditions got moved up. There’s going to be a few hundred dancers trying for the same spot, so..." I shrug. "No guarantees."

And that’s when I hear it.

Soft.

Sharp.

A scoff.

I glance sideways.

Asher isn’t even looking at me now, back to his food like he didn’t just broadcast his opinion loud enough for me to hear.

No one else seems to notice.

Or maybe they do, and they’re just pretending.

I press my fork harder into the mashed potatoes than strictly necessary.

What is his problem?

I don’t know him.

He doesn’t know me.

And yet, somehow, he’s decided to hate me on sight.

The conversation floats on—Tyler talking about soccer, Mrs. Hayes teasing Mr. Hayes about his burnt rolls, a thousand little ordinary things—but underneath it all, there’s a quiet hum.

A hum I can't stop hearing.

Because every once in a while, without meaning to, I look up.

And every time I do—

Asher's already watching.