Mitch squinted against the morning sun as he drove through town on his way home. Getting by on just a couple hours of sleep was nothing new to him—it had practically been a way of life in the Corps—but he’d adjusted to civilian living a lot quicker than he’d realized.

Which included sleeping in past dawn most days.

Still, as much as his body was currently protesting, it had been worth it to make sure Pop and Jonah were okay.

His heart still beat faster when he remembered the moment he received the text saying Pop was in the hospital. Mitch hadn’t taken the time to think or to call. He hadn’t stopped to find out more information.

He’d just acted. He’d gotten up, gotten dressed, and hauled ass to the hospital.

Now, though, as he turned onto his street, he was honestly just looking forward to a hot shower and a long nap in an actual bed.

“Oh, fuck,” Mitch slapped a hand against the side of his steering wheel as his house came into view. The sight of his father’s shiny black pickup in the driveway quickly put an end to Mitch’s thoughts of getting sleep anytime soon. “I should have just stayed at the hospital,” he muttered under his breath as he pulled into the driveway—his own driveway—behind his dad’s truck.

Mitch sighed as he stepped out of the truck and walked toward the house. Of course his dad was nowhere in sight, because of course he had insisted on having his own key.

Taking a deep breath, Mitch opened the door. A heavy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach when he was greeted by the sight of his father, arms crossed, frowning as he stood looking around the house.

Mitch really didn’t want a confrontation this early in the morning, but he knew that look all too well.

Franklin Davis was pissed, and there would be hell to pay.

“Where have you been?” Mitch’s dad demanded. “I’ve been here for hours already.”

Mitch took his time closing the door behind him, slowly counting to three in his head, then starting over and counting to three again before opening his mouth to speak.

Would it have been too much to ask to get a hi, son?

How’s it going?

Great to see you.

Oh, and would you mind if I stopped by your house this morning?

Even a simple phone call would have been more than enough.

But Mitch hadn’t received any of those common courtesies he might have expected from his own father. As usual, he had been shown more love and warmth and thoughtfulness by Jonah’s family than by his own, and the fact that he had just come from that environment to this one only served to highlight the differences.

“I was at the hospital with Jonah and his grandpa,” Mitch answered, finally, moving to the kitchen and tossing his keys in the little yellow dish on the counter that Jonah had picked out for that purpose. He had to admit the new surroundings did go a long way toward making his house feel more like a home.

Mitch turned to see that his dad’s scowl had only deepened at his answer.

In spite of his father’s lack of manners—especially since that was nothing new for him—Mitch was determined to keep his cool.

Sure, his dad had shown up unannounced and uninvited, had let himself in and then demanded to know Mitch’s whereabouts without even so much as a simple hello…

But his dad had helped Mitch get approved for the mortgage in the first place, so Mitch could see why he might feel entitled to come and go without much of a heads-up.

Well, no.

It was still rude as hell.

Not much Mitch could do about it without starting an argument he didn’t have the energy for, though.

“I should have guessed you were spending time with that little—” Franklin cleared his throat. “With them. I’ve told you before to stay away from that family if you know what’s good for you, but you never fucking listen, do you?”

And here we go.

Mitch’s fists clenched at his sides, something he only realized once his brain finally registered the pain from his fingernails digging into his palms. “Mr. Riley was in the hospital, Dad. Come on now…” Mitch shook his head, letting his voice trail off.

He already knew there would be no reasoning with his dad. Not when he got like this. Best just to change the subject and hope Franklin let it go without pushing too much more.

Mitch might not have been looking for an argument, but he still had his limits, especially when it came to the way his dad talked about Jonah and Pop. He wasn’t going to listen to them being disrespected.

Not by anyone.

“Anyway,” Mitch continued. “I’m assuming you didn’t just swing by to check in on me…”

“No. I didn’t.” Franklin snorted. “I came to get your help installing a new water heater, but you were off playing nursemaid to your—friend, so I did it myself. You’re welcome.”

“Uh, what? Thank you…” Mitch furrowed his brow. “A new water heater? You know I would have been here if I would’ve known you were coming, Dad. I had my phone on me all night and didn’t get a call or a text, or—”

“Oh, and now I need to make an appointment? I’m so sorry to have bothered Your Highness.” He rolled his eyes and looked around with a disgusted smirk. “You knew the inspector said this place needed a new water heater, and I didn’t see you rushing out to do something about it. But if I’d have known what you did to the place—so much frilly shit laying around—I would’ve saved my time and my money. No doubt that little queer picked out all of this, hm? Or is that gay shit rubbing off on you again?”

“Get out.” The pressure inside Mitch’s head had been building with every hateful word that spewed from his father’s mouth. And he had almost been able to overlook it. Almost. But when his dad had started in on Jonah, that had been a step too far. “Get. Out.”

Mitch had taken a step forward with each word until he was standing just a couple of feet away from his father—close enough to see the wrinkles around Franklin’s eyes multiply and his nostrils flare as the color of his skin changed to a mottled red.

There was a damn good chance that one or both of them would be nursing a black eye after this, but Mitch didn’t care. His vision had narrowed and his heart was pounding and all he could focus on was the hateful, smirking man in front of him.

“Don’t think I won’t beat your ass the same way I did when you were a kid, boy,” Franklin spat. “And don’t forget whose name is on the deed here. This is my house.”

“I haven’t been a boy for a long time, Dad,” Mitch answered, not moving an inch as he stared the older man down. “And don’t forget that it’s my money that paid for—and that keeps paying for—this house. So just get the hell out of here before we both regret it.”

Franklin threw his shoulders back and drew himself up to his full height. He was a couple of inches shorter than Mitch, but Mitch could still see the same big, intimidating man who had ruled his childhood home like a dictator.

If anything, age had only made him meaner.

Mitch could see the unrelenting anger flare in his father’s eyes as they stared at each other across the too-small space that separated them, and he braced himself to take the first hit if his dad made the mistake of swinging at him.

But he didn’t swing. Mitch didn’t get hit.

Neither one said another word, in fact.

Franklin simply turned on his heel and stalked out the door, slamming it behind him.

Mitch didn’t move for several seconds. He simply stood, staring at the spot where his father had been and wondering why they could never manage to get along for more than five minutes at a time—or why his dad had to be so damn mean.

He didn’t have the answers, though. He swayed on his feet and then moved to the couch, slumping down onto the cushions as he exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

At least Franklin had left before things could turn really ugly. Mitch could definitely be thankful for that much.

Not that it really mattered. He would be back, of course, and there wasn’t much Mitch could do to stop him. It was legally Franklin’s house, as he’d made sure to point out.

So he would be back. Mitch would be ready.

And nothing would be resolved.

Even as tired as Mitch was when he got home, it still took hours after his dad left before he was able to calm down enough to sleep.

Worse, he woke up to a pounding headache in the middle of the afternoon, pretty sure he hadn’t actually rested at all through his fitful nap.

Dammit, Dad.

Mitch rolled over and swung his legs off the bed, stretching and shaking his head to clear the cobwebs. He had never understood why his dad always had to be such a fucking dick.

As a kid, nothing had been enough. Mitch struggled to remember a time when his dad had given even a word of praise.

He’d said at the time that he was tough on Mitch to build character.

And maybe it had worked?

God knows it made Mitch try harder and harder, even joining the Marines because it was what his father had wanted. That, at least, had turned out well—giving Mitch the kind of structure, goals, and self-worth he’d desperately needed.

But even that had ended in disappointment—both for himself and his dad—because of his bad fucking knee.

Mitch stood up and rubbed his eyes. Jesus, had he really slept through the whole damn day? He needed to call Jonah and check up on Pop.

First, though, he needed some food.

His stomach grumbled its approval as he lurched toward his bedroom door. At least his earlier confrontation with his dad ensured he wouldn’t need to deal with that bullshit again anytime soon. Franklin would probably give him the silent treatment for months after the way Mitch had kicked him out.

Which was just fine with Mitch.

Great, actually.

The first thing Mitch noticed when he stepped outside his bedroom door was the sound of running water.

The second thing he noticed was the squish of wet carpet under his feet as he got closer to the front of the house.

“What the actual fuck?” He jumped back onto the dry carpet in the hallway as his sleepy brain tried to make sense of what was happening.

Why was the carpet wet?

Why was the water running?

Where the hell was it coming from?

One thing was for sure, though. The water was quickly spreading through the house. This was not good. Not fucking good at all.

“No,” he muttered, wrinkling his nose as he stepped back onto the wet carpet and hurried into the living room. “No, no, no.”

Mitch did a quick scan from where he stood. The kitchen sink was dry and turned off, but the floor in there was wet, too. He moved toward the kitchen, intending to check under the cabinets for a burst pipe, and that was when he realized where the sound of running water was coming from.

The utility closet in the small dining area that separated the kitchen from the living room.

The water heater.

He opened the closet door and stood in stunned silence for a moment as he watched water literally pour from the pipe that should have been connected to the hot water tank.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he fumbled with the water shutoff valve as the standing water near the closet nearly covered his feet.

Mitch had no idea how long the water had been running like that, but judging from the volume of water and how far back into the house it had reached, it had to have been running for hours.

Probably all damn day while he’d been sleeping.

And Mitch didn’t know much about owning a house, but he knew if the water traveled up the drywall or got into the insulation, he was going to be absolutely fucked.

He squished his way back to the bedroom. He needed to do something, but he wasn’t sure what.

The first thing he could think of was to grab his phone and fire off a text to his dad.

Whatever you did to the water heater didn’t work. The whole house is flooded!

He thought about sending a few more choice words along with that text, but there really wasn’t time to get into another argument right now.

Within a few minutes, he’d found the number to a plumber, and had nearly lost his mind when they said it would be the next morning before they could come and take a look at his water-logged house.

At least they gave him some tips on what to do until then. He had a long night ahead of him pulling up carpet, soaking up water, and setting up fans to help dry… and all of that probably still wouldn’t be enough to keep from having to replace at least some of the drywall.

He looked down at his phone just as a text came in from his dad, then resisted the urge to smash the phone against the wall as he read the message.

“And fuck you, too, Dad,” he muttered, clenching the phone so tight that the edges started to bite into his hand.

Then, for the first time that day, Mitch made a decision that wouldn’t immediately come back to bite him in the ass.

He took a deep breath, counted to three, and gingerly set his phone on the bedside table where it would at least stay dry.

Getting mad now wasn’t going to solve anything. Breaking his phone certainly wouldn’t solve anything.

He had plenty of work to do, and time was not on his side.