I don't notice the sons until Tink's panic attack is subsiding. They hover in the hallway outside Cole and Juan's bedroom—Clint's tall form rigid with tension, Sean leaning against the wall with forced casualness that doesn't match his wide eyes, Dylan half-hidden behind his brothers. None of them speak, but their scents betray them—concern threading through their habitual hostility like an unexpected color in a familiar pattern. Clint's jaw works as he watches Juan coax Tink back from ...