Theron’s POV
Something's wrong with Raven.
I've known it for days now, watching her move through the ranch like a ghost wearing a living girl's skin. She smiles when she's supposed to smile. Laughs at my jokes a half-second too late, like she's running the sound through a translator before responding. Eats like food is a chore instead of a pleasure.
And she's avoiding me.
Both of us, actually, but me especially—which is impressive given we live in the same damn house. Three bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen you can't swing a cat in. Avoiding someone here takes serious commitment.
I corner her in the hallway Tuesday morning. She's tiptoeing past my door like a cartoon character, and I can't take it anymore.
"You're avoiding me."
She startles, hand flying to her chest. "I'm not—"
"You literally just hid behind a door frame when you heard me coming. I saw you."
Her cheeks flush pink. "I was looking for something."
"Behind a door frame?"
"It's a big house."
I lean against the wall, crossing my arms. "I'm not offended, just impressed. Avoiding someone in a three-bedroom farmhouse takes real commitment. You should teach a class."
She doesn't laugh. Doesn't even try. Just mumbles something about chores and slips past me, leaving the scent of hay and something floral in her wake.
I let her go. For now.
Weston, predictably, is handling things by pretending nothing exists. I watch my brother retreat into cold professionalism—barking orders about fence repairs, discussing feed schedules with the enthusiasm of a man reading a tax document. He probably thinks Raven's distance is a good thing. Confirmation that they've all "moved on" from that night.
I know better.
I've spent my whole life reading the currents between people. The things they don't say. The feelings they bury under polite smiles and practical conversations. It's a skill you develop when you're the younger brother, always watching, always two steps behind.
And Raven isn't moving on. She's drowning in something she won't name.
I catch the proof that afternoon.
She's struggling with a water trough near the back paddock—heavy, awkward, definitely a two-person job. Her face is red, arms shaking with the effort. I'm about to call out, offer help, when Weston appears from nowhere.
My brother doesn't say a word. Just walks up, lifts his end of the trough, helps her move it into position. Their hands brush on the metal rim. Neither acknowledges it.
Then he walks away without a backward glance.
Raven stares after him. Something raw flickers across her face—longing, confusion, hurt all tangled together. Her hand trembles slightly as she tucks hair behind her ear.
And I see it. Clear as daylight.
The way she watches him. The way her whole body orients toward my brother like a flower tracking the sun. There's more between them than one drunken night. More than even they probably realize.
My chest aches with something I refuse to name.
Evening comes, and I can't find her anywhere. Not in her room. Not in the barn. Not on the porch where she sometimes watches the sunset, hugging her knees to her chest like she's trying to hold herself together.
I finally discover her in the old storage closet off the mudroom. The one filled with dusty equipment and things nobody's touched in years. Broken tools. Old saddles. Memories we buried instead of throwing away.
She's sitting on an overturned crate, holding a guitar.
Elena's guitar.
The sight hits me like a fist to the chest. I haven't seen that instrument in four years. Didn't even know it was still in the house. Weston must have hidden it back here after the funeral, unable to throw it away but unable to look at it either.
Raven runs her fingers over the strings, producing a discordant sound that echoes in the small space. She doesn't know what she's holding. Doesn't understand the ghost attached to it.
"That was Elena's," I say quietly from the doorway.
Her head snaps up. "What?"
"West's wife." I step into the closet, and the space shrinks around us. Dust motes float in the fading light. "She used to play every night. Said music was the only thing that made sense when everything else was chaos."
Raven looks down at the guitar with new eyes. Her hand stills on the strings, suddenly reverent. "I didn't know he was married."
"Not many people do. She died four years ago." I lean against a shelf of old paint cans, trying to look casual when nothing about this feels casual. "West doesn't talk about it. Doesn't talk about much of anything, actually, but especially not her."
The silence stretches between us.
Raven holds the guitar like it might shatter. Like she's suddenly aware she's touching something sacred, something that doesn't belong to her.
"I shouldn't have—" She starts to set it down.
"No, it's okay." The words surprise me. "She would've hated it collecting dust. Elena believed instruments were meant to be played, not preserved."
"You knew her well?"
"She was my sister-in-law for three years. Before that, she was just the girl who made my brother smile." I swallow past the tightness in my throat. "Haven't seen him smile like that since."
Until you, I don't say. Until you showed up on our doorstep and something in him started to wake up.
Raven's moss-green eyes search my face. "I'm sorry. For your loss too."
"Thanks." I clear my throat. "So. You play?"
She shakes her head. "Always wanted to learn. Never had time. My father thought music was a waste of resources unless you could monetize it."
"Sounds like a real charmer."
"You have no idea." A ghost of her real smile flickers across her face. "I used to sneak into the music room at school and just... touch the instruments. Piano, guitar, violin. Imagining what it would feel like to make something beautiful."
The longing in her voice cracks something open in my chest.
I should take the guitar from her. Should put it back where it was hidden, protect my brother from whatever feelings might surface if he sees it. That's what a good brother would do.
Instead, I hear myself say: "Maybe West could teach you."
The words hang in the dusty air between us.
"What?" She blinks at me.
"He plays. Learned from Elena." I shrug like this isn't costing me anything. "He's rusty, but the muscle memory's still there. Might be good for both of you."
"Why would you suggest that?"
Because I see you, I think. Because I know you're carrying something heavy, and if I can't make it lighter, maybe he can. Because I love you enough to want you happy, even if that happiness isn't with me.
"Because you deserve to have things you want," I say instead. "Even if you have to ask for them."
She stares at me like I've grown a second head. Like kindness without strings attached is a foreign concept.
It probably is, given what I know about her father.
"Theron..." She trails off, something complicated moving behind her eyes.
"Don't overthink it." I push off from the shelf, ready to make my exit before I say something I'll regret. "Just a suggestion. Take it or leave it."
I'm almost to the door when her voice stops me.
"Thank you. For being... you."
I look back at her—sitting on that crate, holding my dead sister-in-law's guitar, carrying secrets I can feel but can't name—and something in my chest cracks a little wider.
"Anytime, Raven. I mean it."
I leave her there with Elena's ghost and a guitar full of memories, wondering if I just made things better or catastrophically worse.
Probably worse. That seems to be my specialty lately.
But the way she looked at that guitar—the hunger, the hope—I couldn't take that from her. Even if it means building a bridge between her and Weston. Even if it means watching her walk across it toward him.
Some things matter more than winning.
I'm just not sure my heart got that memo yet.