Page 72 of Fall is Brewing

Sitting at the head of the table with his sleeves rolled to his forearms, absentmindedly tearing off a piece of biscuit while listening to Jace's increasingly ridiculous theory about highly intelligent raccoons. The firelight from the living room catches the darker strands in his hair, and every now and then he laughs under his breath—not loudly, not looking for attention, just because his brother has said something genuinely funny.

It's unfair how handsome he is when he isn't trying.

Made even more unfair that he has no idea.

He glances up, catching me staring and one eyebrow lifts. This time, for the first time, I don't look away.

Instead, I take another bite of potatoes like I'd been looking at him for perfectly normal, non-heart-rate-altering reasons.

His mouth curves into the smallest, most knowing smile. “Careful,” Brooks says, his voice low enough that it threads beneath Jace and Evan’s bickering. “You keep looking like that, they’ll think you’re enjoying yourself.”

I blink, heat rushing up my neck. “I am eating chicken and listening to your brother build a conspiracy theory around raccoons. Enjoyment feels like a generous term.”

“But… you did laugh.”

“I have a condition.”

“Ah, that’s right. The gas.”

I point my spoon at him. “Don’t steal my jokes.”

His smile deepens, and I have to look down at my plate because looking at Brooks Calder across a dinner table, in the warm glow of his cabin, while wearing his sweatshirt and eating food he made, feels like accidentally walking into a future I have no business imagining.

Jace groans. “I’m being ignored. This is elder abuse.”

“You’re the youngest,” Evan says.

“Emotionally, I contain multitudes.”

“You contain potatoes,” Brooks says. “On your shirt.”

Jace looks down. “That’s from earlier.”

“Dinner started fifteen minutes ago.”

“Exactly. It’s from fifteen minutes earlier.”

I laugh again, and this time I don’t even try to stop it. Maybe that’s the dangerous part. Not Brooks touching my waist in the rain. Not his thumb brushing dirt from my cheek. Not the way he looks at me sometimes like he’s reading a page of my diary I forgot I’d left open.

This. The ease. The way this table feels loud and warm and lived-in, the way the rain taps at the windows while the fire breathes softly from the living room, the way the Calders fill empty space without trying. At home, family dinner is love too, but it’s quieter. Smaller. Me, Dad, Patty, Grandpa—four points of a compass that always knows the true north.

This is different. Messier. More kinetic. Like love … with elbows.

My gaze drifts to the framed photo on the sideboard near the kitchen. I noticed it earlier but didn’t let myself stare.

Now I do.

A man and woman sit on the hood of an old truck beneath a tree, both laughing at something outside the frame. Behind them, three boys stand beneath apple trees, sunburned and gangly, each holding donuts like trophies. The youngest has frosting on his chin. The oldest looks like he’s already over whatever chaos preceded the picture. The middle boy—Brooks with his dark hair, serious eyes, and he wears the same stubborn set to his mouth, even back then. Something tugs at the back of my mind, faint as a thread caught on a nail.

“Those are your parents?” I ask quietly. “Have they seen the orchard yet?” The table stills with my question. Not dramatically. Not enough that someone walking by would notice. But I feel it all the same, the subtle shift in the room, like everyone has adjusted their breathing at once.

Brooks follows my gaze. “Yeah, those are our parents.” His voice is even. Too even. And it doesn’t escape me how none of the guys answer the second question I asked. I immediately feel terrible for bringing it up.

Evan softens first, all his harsh edges dimming into something gentler. “Mom hated that picture.”

“Nah, she loved that picture,” Jace says.

“She said Dad looked like he’d just lost a fight with a lawn mower.”