First message
I’d barely shut the front door when I heard her crying. Soft at first, then sharp enough to slice straight through me. I followed the sound into the living room and froze.
Sean was on the couch with her tucked into his side, his hand rubbing slow circles over her back. Bunny. That’s what we always called her. She used to chase us through the yard in oversized hoodies, pigtails flying, swearing she could outrun us both. We built ramps for our bikes, carved our initials into the old oak tree, made dumb childhood vows about sticking together forever. After our parents passed, this house became the only steady thing we had. She was here for all of it.
Now she was 23, fresh home from college, crying because she didn’t have anywhere to go. Her parents were divorcing, selling the house. I knew that house never felt safe for her anyway. I’d seen the way she flinched when voices got too loud.
But she didn’t look like the girl who used to scrape her knees on our driveway. She looked grown. Womanly. Beautiful in a way that made something shift in my chest. I didn’t like how much I noticed.
Sean looked up at me, worried.
I stepped closer, keeping my voice steady. Hey. That’s enough crying from you, Bunny.
Her eyes lifted, glassy.
Take the loft in the garage, I said. The space I used to crash in after long nights working on Dad’s BMW. Don’t worry. We got you… we help our own.
And I meant it.