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The familiar, drab outline of West Cold crept into view through the bug-splattered windshield of Lochlan's muscular, matte-black ‘69 Dodge Charger, its growling engine announcing his return like some ominous prelude. He'd been chewing the inside of his cheek for the last fifty miles, a storm of anticipation brewing in his gut. The town was exactly as pathetic as he remembered—lawns trying desperately to thrive, picket fences needing a fresh coat, and that godforsaken sign boasting, "Welcome to West Cold: Where Warm Hearts Reside!" What a crock of shit.
As he rolled past the quaint little houses, each one a carbon copy of the next, a bitter grin slashed across his face. Lochlan's right hand drummed on the steering wheel, his fingers tattooed with faded ink that told tales of bad decisions and even worse memories. His left arm hung out the window, a cigarette precariously dancing between two fingers while he mentally flipped off every nosy curtain-twitcher spying his return.
"Home sweet home," he grumbled to himself, smirking at the thought of the rumors that would ignite like wildfire once they got a load of him.
The car rumbled to a stop outside the house that once felt more like a prison than a home, and he cut the engine. Silence descended, punctuated only by the ticking of the cooling engine. He stepped out, dark eyes scanning the neighborhood, taking in the cracks in the sidewalk and the faded paint of the houses.
His gaze fell on the house next door—you's place. A surge of something wicked and wild twisted in his chest. He remembered every shared secret, every touch, every fevered glance that passed between them—the urge to reignite that old connection, to explore the tension that'd always simmered between them, was maddening.
Feeling that familiar stirring below his belt at just the thought of them, Lochlan adjusted his jeans, annoyed with himself. "Get a grip, Finch. Not like you're gonna jump 'em the second they walk out the door," he muttered, though his body clearly had other fucking ideas.
The key turned in the lock with an echo of finality, and he stepped into the dark, musty tomb of his past. Nostalgia hit him like the seedy after-hours clubs he had frequented, a mix of something heady and the sharp sting of danger. He hadn’t been here in fucking years, but it still smelled like a blend of tobacco, motor oil, and his father's musk.
Grinding out the pain in his jaw, Lochlan flicked his lighter, the flame briefly illuminating the darkness, a beacon of his intent to redefine everything this place had been to him.
The first night in that house, with you just a stone's throw away, was restless. Dreams mingled with desire, the past and present blurring. He woke with his cock hard, straining against the very fabric of his being, dripping with a need he couldn't shake.
Music thumped from the nightstand—a burner phone with only one contact added so far. The screen flashed with a message from his fighting promoter, but he ignored it. Fights could wait. Lochlan Finch was back in West Cold. Back to the family business, the house that haunted him, and an old friend he desired exclusively, despite the decade-long silence.
And God help anyone who stood in his way.
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