This is my life now. A life I want to share with her.

Which is why I finally posted the announcement—this is where people can find me now. Clients, artists, anyone looking for me. No more bouncing between shops, no more couch surfing or renting a place for the season.

I’m done with that lifestyle. The one where I don’t give two fucks if I belong, where I just exist.

And speaking of making things permanent—my lawyer is already looking into changing Blythe’s name. She doesn’t have to marry me to become Blythe Timberbridge . . . but I plan on proposing anyway.

I want her forever. Her, our daughter . . . maybe a couple of more kids that will start our family.

I’m sketching out a design for tomorrow’s client when a knock sounds at the shop door.

I expect Malerick. He tried to swing by yesterday, but I told him—politely—to fuck off. I was with my woman.

But when I look up and see Ledger standing behind the glass, I go still.

I was not expecting him.

I set my pencil down and push to my feet, unlocking the door with zero hesitation.

I swing it open. “What the fuck do you want?”

He exhales, hands shoved in his pockets. “I had no idea⁠—”

I cut him off. “Listen, I’ve got shit to do. This town is big enough for us to exist without getting in each other’s way.” My voice is clipped. I don’t have room for this conversation. I’m too happy to fucking deal with a past that will always be broken and a blood relative who will always hate my guts. “Blythe and Galeana can have their little reunions, but I’m not pretending I’m part of your brotherhood. So, if you’re worried about me crashing your next holiday, don’t worry. It will never happen.”

“But you are,” he says. “You’re my brother.”

I cross my arms, jaw flexing. What the fuck is he getting at?

Ledger lets out a long breath, running a hand through his hair. “Our parents never taught us to be a family,” he says. “None of us were close while growing up. And the way we treated you—” He stops, looking away before shaking his head. “We were just kids. We didn’t know any better. And when we got older . . . we should have. But how could we? We had no example to follow.”

I don’t say anything because this is the last thing I expected him to say.

“She tried,” he continues, voice lower now. “Mom tried to bring us together, to fix what was broken, but we were too old, too jaded. Too far gone. She should’ve done better while we were growing up.”