Page 39 of Life After You

I forced my legs to move, even as my stomach twisted into knots. My fingers trembled slightly as I gripped the doorknob to pull it open. And there they were.

Sam stood in front, arms crossed, his massive frame blocking out the rest of the world. His skin gleamed under the soft glow of the porch light, dark eyes locked onto mine. I sucked in a sharpbreath at the sight of the goatee lining his jaw. That was new. But the way he looked at me—like I was a ghost, like he was afraid to blink.

“Mac,” he said, voice rough, full of something I wasn’t ready to face.

I swallowed hard. “Hey, Sammy.”

His face crumpled, and before I could react, he grabbed me, crushing me into his chest. I barely had time to breathe before the weight of him—the sheer strength of his grip—hit me all at once. Sam smelled like cedarwood and clean sweat. Like the gym. Like early morning jogs with Braden.

I squeezed my eyes shut as I gripped the back of his jacket, my fingers curling into the worn leather. “Shit, it’s really you.” He muttered against my hair.

I let out a broken laugh. “Yeah. It’s me.” He pulled back just enough to look at me, his big hands still on my arms, like he was afraid I might disappear. But then movement caught my eye, and my breath hitched.

Chace.

His golden hair was a mess, tangled from sleep, and his green eyes—God, those green eyes—were filled with something raw. Something that made my chest ache.

“Jesus, Kay.” He murmured, shaking his head. “Do you have any idea how much we’ve missed you?” I barely had a second to react before he yanked me into his arms.

Chace was solid, warm, steady. He always had been. He wasn’t the loudest, the wildest, or even the most reckless—but he was the one that kept everyone else from falling apart. Right now, though, as he held me like he was afraid to let go, I could feel the tremble in his grip.

I pressed my face into his shoulder. “Yeah.” I whispered. “I think I do.” When he finally let go—I turned, and locked eyes with Trey.

I swallowed hard.

Trey hasn’t changed—except for his expression. He looks hurt, concerned. And I hate it. It reminds me of after the funeral… the funerals. Everyone treating me like I’d shatter if they so much as looked at me wrong.

His face is still sharp, still angelic, framed by that messy brown hair. The beauty mark on his jaw is still there—a tiny thing that always drove the girls wild. But the ink—the tattoos crawling up his neck, disappearing beneath his shirt—seems darker somehow. Like they carry more weight now.

But it’s his brown eyes that hit me the hardest. Because they’re haunted.

“Trey,” I breathe.

He doesn’t speak. Just closes the distance between us and pulls me in. He smells like cigarettes and faded cologne. Like sleepless nights and too many drinks.

“I should’ve called,” I whisper.

His grip tightens for just a second before he exhales. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “You should have. It doesn’t matter now though. Tag. You’re it.”

Trey nudges me back a step, and I blink at him, confused.

A sting burns behind my eyes, but before I can say anything, another voice cuts through the moment.

“The hell are you guys doing here?”

I turn toward the doorway. Logan stands there, barefoot, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, arms crossed over his bare chest. His eyes flick between them, unimpressed.

Sam smirks. “Nice to see you too, brother.”

Logan lets out a slow breath. “Phil sent you, didn’t he?”

Chace sighs. “Of course he did. We have a show coming up, and you,Logey-Fogey, haven’t turned off your location.”

Logan groans, rubbing a hand down his face. “My cell has that?”

“Uh,Logey, every cell since, like, the noughties has that feature,” Chace says.

Logan lets out a low growl—the kind that should be intimidating. Unfortunately, being surrounded by these guys, it just isn’t.

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